


Asphyxia

by Shironette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post Reichenbach, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicide, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 77,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shironette/pseuds/Shironette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a series of severe panic attacks work away at John's mental and physical health, Sherlock is left to determine whether this is the work of an enemy, or if there is something that John is hiding. / COMPLETED 7/6</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hello, thank you for opting to read my little story. This is my first piece I've published on the Archive, so please give me a little grace while I figure all this stuff out. 

Before you start, a warning is due. If you are triggered by anxiety, depression, suicide, rape, or abuse, be very careful with this fic. Dark themes are laced tightly throughout, increasing in intensity as the plot progresses. You have been warned.

I love getting reviews, so if you liked this or if you see something I can work on, please drop me a note. 

Thanks again, and please enjoy Asphyxia.

 

* * *

 

 

You looked nervous today, more nervous than I'd seen you in a long time. You drummed your fingers on your thigh almost the entire cab ride, your gaze fixed on the buzzing London streets, just watching, entranced as the people passed by. We were en route to Mycroft's Christmas party, to be held at his house. The better half of Scotland Yard was invited, meaning Lestrade, Molly, and the others, which I would assume would have calmed your nerves. But evidently I had assumed wrong.

I decided to ask about it. "You feeling alright, Sherlock?"

"Of course," You grumbled, not even bothering to turn your head.

"You look nervous."

"I'm not nervous." You growled. "I don't get nervous."

"Fine, fine." I shook my head. "Sorry."

"Mycroft will definitely say something."

"Hmm?"

"He'll will definitely make some sort of attempt to humiliate me. I'm just trying to decide what approach he'll take, so that I can be prepared for it." You folded your hands under your chin. "He's in his own habitat of choice. He would have had plenty of time to plan. I, however, have only a few more minutes."

"Don't get worked up about it. Mycroft isn't as eager to show off as you are," I said.

"But he wouldn't let an opportunity like this one pass him by. Needless to say it doesn't come around very often."

"Give it a break, Sherlock. Your brother's world doesn't only revolve around you, after all."

"Well, it should."

You gave me a little sideways smirk, and I chuckled.

"Don't worry about Mycroft. I'm sure we'll get plenty of comments, but that's normal. We haven't seen anyone since... that."

"Since our engagement."

"Yeah, that." I glanced at the gold ring on my finger. "I'm sure there were more than a few bets going on."

"Of course. Speaking of which, I need to collect."

"Sherlock."

You grinned, and I looked back out the window.

The house (or, rather, castle) came into view. Its vaulted roof reached far above all of the other buildings, with small figures knitted carefully into the stone. Square windows spread light into the street, with a large red canopy covering a good part of the sidewalk in front of the door. I couldn't help but wonder how much money the building had cost Mycroft, whether in sale or just maintenance.

The cab pulled to the curb, and you quickly paid him before stepping out into the rain. I followed, pulling my grey jacket tight around my neck and flipping the collar up against the wind, the foot of my crutch sloshing water against my ankles. You came around the car and thrust your hands into your greatcoat, leading me towards the doorway while I searched my pockets for the invitation. A small crowd was congregated outside the door, under the cover of the canopy, hailing for cabs and fishing for their own invitations.

Just as I was starting to panic that I had forgotten ours, one of the commissionaires approached us with a sparkle of recognition in his face. "Sherlock Holmes?" He asked.

"Yes. And guest." You nodded, angling your body between us.

"Mr. Holmes' been waiting for you. Go right in." He motioned with his arm, clearing us a path past the security guards and into the wide foyer. Though sometimes it was a pain getting recognized in public, at times like that it was very convenient. The commissionaire offered to take our coats for us, then quickly disappeared into another room.

We could hear the noise of the party coming from the upper level. Standing between us and it were two winding flights of stairs, which were more than a little intimidating to look at, with their red velvet carpeting and stone railing. You quickly started up, skipping three stairs at a time, a little faster than usual for lack of a coat. I hissed and stumbled after you, my crutch making funny squeaking sounds across the marble floor.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait for me. I'll get lost in a heartbeat in this house," I huffed, starting up the stairs as fast as my leg would allow.

You sighed and slowed down, turning to wait for me. "Hotel."

I glanced up. "What?"

"It was a hotel, obviously. Small one. Renovated. My brother saw a need to entertain." You waved your hands, glancing around in disgust.

"Looks like he spared no expense either," I mumbled, slowing down to look. "See all those gold accents."

"Yes, I've noticed." You climbed the stairs beside me, your hands deep in the pockets of your suit trousers. "You don't really need your crutch, do you, John. You're not an old man."

"It helps." I answered. "My leg has been hurting the last few days. I might go in to get it massaged or something."

"It's psychosomatic. Therapy won't help."

"Well fine. I'll get a massage anyway. A man can enjoy a massage every once in a while. I might not be an old man, but I sure am feeling my years."

We reached the top of the staircase, and I stopped for a second to admire the surroundings. Elaborately-dressed women and smooth-shaven men pranced around with glasses of wine and champagne, laughing and socializing with their fellow officials. Reds and greens were prominent, with holly and mistletoe strung generously around the room. A large pine tree decorated with lights stood proudly in the center, littered with ornaments and ribbon. Food enough to serve a multitude was laid out for easy picking. My stomach was already growling, and the spiral-cut ham looked like a delicacy from the outskirts of heaven.

"Don't drool on your shirt, it's not very sophisticated of you," You whispered, walking forward.

"I wasn't drooling." I glared, following you.

You spotted Mycroft quickly, talking with Lestrade and another young woman near the tree. When they noticed us, Lestrade motioned for us to join them. You were a little hesitant at first, but I went ahead, giving Greg a firm handshake as soon as I was within arm's length.

"John, John," Lestrade chuckled, his eyes glittering. "It's been a while, eh? It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Greg." I smiled. My attention wandered to the young woman standing behind him, who came around and nodded her head to me.

"John, this is Anne. Anne, this is John Watson." He set his hand on the small of her back while she and I shook hands, and I immediately made the connection. Guest of choice.

She had a soft grip and a sweet smile. "Nice to meet you, John."

"Nice to meet you too, Anne," I replied.

Mycroft smiled at me and then looked past, tapping the handle of his umbrella as you came up behind me. "I'm glad you could make it, little brother," He said, unusually warmly. You broadened your shoulders a little. He reached out with a cold gaze to shake your hand, and you took it.

"My pleasure." You answered.

"And John." He turned back to me. "It's good to see you in such good spirits. A lot can happen in just a few weeks, as you can imagine. Congratulations on your... engagement."

"Er, thank you, Mycroft."

"You two are engaged?" Anne chimed in, her eyes big.

"Um, yes." I lifted my hand, and she cooed at my ring. "Last week, I think it was."

"Sunday, the eighth." You interjected.

"...Yes. Sunday."

"How sweet!" She smiled. "Have you got a wedding date planned?"

"We haven't really discussed it much yet," I chuckled.

"March. The second week."

I glanced at you, a little confused, but you had a kind of matter-of-fact look about you. Obviously I wasn't present when we had decided that bit.

"Aw, spring weddings are so romantic." Anne nodded. "My congratulations to both of you."

"Thank you, Anne."

"I don't think we've been introduced," You said, stepping forward to shake Anne's hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes." She took his hand. I was a little surprised that she didn't respond with something like "I already knew you", considering she was Lestrade's date, but I guess that did happen sometimes. You moved back to stand beside me, a little closer than you had before.

"So, you guys have finally admitted it, eh?" Greg laughed, taking another sip from his wineglass. "Though, I would've thought you'd at least announce you were dating before you suddenly get engaged. It was a bit of a shocker."

"Well, we weren't exactly dating," I answered. "More like... stuck between relationship and partnership."

"You didn't date?"

"Not really, no. Not until the rings."

"That's a bit unorthodox," He noted. "But knowing the two of you, it makes sense. I can see it. And just for the record, I definitely saw it coming."

"I'll remember not to doubt your deductive abilities, Geoff," You sneered.

He frowned. "Greg."

"Greg. Right."

"Mind your manners, Sherlock." Mycroft said, a twinge of anger in his voice. "Why don't you two help yourselves to dine. After you're finished, there's a gift waiting for you and your fiancé in the left wing, if you're interested."

"Oh, really? Thank you." I glanced at him, a little suspicious. "I wasn't expecting any gifts."

"I know." He shot me a half-smirk. "Think of it as an early Christmas present, for my new brother."

The tension between you and your brother seemed to tighten as you set your hand on my back. "Then we'll be seeing you, Mycroft."

"Yes. Enjoy yourselves." Mycroft tapped his umbrella, then walked back to mingle with the other guests. Lestrade winked at us, then whisked Anne off for more wine. You began a trek towards the buffet tables, starting off about something that I couldn't understand above the chatter of the strangers around us.

"Have you and Mycroft been fighting again, Sherlock?" I asked, catching up to you.

"Nothing exceeding the norm." You answered. "Ignore him. You're hungry. I'll sit with you while you eat."

"You'll eat too. I haven't seen you touch a bite all afternoon."

You grumbled. "Go find us seats. I'll get your plate."

 

 

* * *

 

 

One of the perks of having you as a boyfriend is that you always know exactly what I have the stomach for at a particular moment. You came to the table with a plate filled with ham, casserole, sweet potatoes, turkey stuffing, and a few of those little cubes of cheese, with a separate bowl for salad. When I pointed out that you hadn't brought a plate for yourself, you insisted that you would just eat off mine. I didn't bother to argue - the ham was too strong a temptation for me to resist for long.

Lestrade and guest came to sit with us a few minutes later. Anne sported two glasses of champagne, and set them in front of us with a smile. "For the happy couple," She chimed.

"Oh, thank you." I smiled, taking the glass. You gave Anne a wary glance and picked up yours as well. A blind man to your right had captured your attention, and you turned back to the conversation with him, not paying me much mind.

Anne was in a similar situation, with Lestrade chatting away with one of his co-workers about one of his current cases. So instead of listening in, she turned to me and decided to strike up her own conversation.

She was a very sweet young woman, emphasis on the young. I couldn't help but notice that she seemed a little too young for Lestrade. (Not to discredit Greg, it's not like he's some old dog. But he was in his middle-age, and his looks didn't hide it. This new girlfriend could have easily been half his age.) But she was gorgeous, completely gorgeous. Her eyes were large emerald orbs, and there was not a strand of auburn hair out of place. Even besides her features, she was a lovely woman in personality. She held herself in a respectable way, her shoulders back and head high. She was friendly and very easy to talk to. I felt as if I could just talk to her for hours, going on about nothing.

"Have you known the Holmes brothers for a long time, John?" She asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"A few years, yes. Sherlock and I have been flat-mates for a while, though he... uh, moved out for a time. He moved back in about six months ago."

"Oh, how nice." She smiled. "So you've already been living together.

I nodded. "It wasn't in a relationship sort of way, though. We were just flat-mates. Sharing the rent. Different bedrooms."

"I see. Well, that's the best way to start out, right?"

"Right."

She nodded. "Do you work in town?"

"Yes, I do. St. Bart's Hospital. I'm a doctor."

"Oh, a doctor! That's very nice. What kind of doctor?"

"Well, right now I work in the ER. Emergency medical physician."

"Oh wow. That's courageous. I wouldn't have the heart or the stomach to work in a field like that."

"Nah, it's not too bad. We only get the occasional serious case. Most are just flu patients or people with bowel issues. Broken bones, pregnant mothers, STDs. That sort of thing."

"I still think it's pretty gruesome," Anne laughed, knitting her eyebrows. "I would probably be sick within the first two days."

"You get used to it."

She chuckled. "I guess so."

I adjusted myself in my chair so that I would be facing her. "What about you, Anne? Do you work in town?"

"Oh, yeah, I do. I'm a waitress at Sam and Christa's in Camden."

"Ah. I've never heard of that one."

"It's privately owned, but it's a cute little spot right on the corner."

"Is that where you met Greg?"

"Yep. I was serving at the bar. We sort of hit it off." She patted Lestrade's shoulder, but he didn't bother to turn around.

"How long have you two been going out?" I asked.

"Just a few weeks. He's very sweet."

I laughed. "I can believe it. At least the police-work hasn't toughened him too much."

"Quite the opposite. He talks about Mr. Holmes more than a bit. Seems like he's always around when there's a good case, yeah?"

"You could say that. He's quite the adrenaline junkie. Consulting detective, as he says."

"That's what Lestrade told me. Said he could practically read someone's life story right off their skin."

"It's true. Sometimes I doubt he's even human." I glanced at you. You must've heard your name, because you turned in your chair and decided to invest yourself into our conversation. "Speak of the devil."

"Anything that John tells you about my sock index, it's all lies." You said.

"I didn't say anything about your sock index," I grumbled.

"Or my goldfish." He continued.

"You have a goldfish?" I raised an eyebrow.

"You two are adorable," Anne said, laughing. "I promise, Mr. Holmes, he didn't give me any secrets about your socks or your goldfish."

"Good." You shot her a smile - a fake, needle-eyed smile - and patted my shoulders. "Come on, John. I think it's about time we go find those 'gifts' Mycroft seemed so irritatingly enthusiastic about."

I peered at you, identifying the strange forcefulness in your voice, which Anne didn't seem to reconize.

"Alright, we'd better do that. It was nice getting to talk to you, Anne." I smiled at her, pushing out of my chair.

"You too, John," She said, slowly lifting her glass to her lips.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Neither of us had been Mycroft's current palace-home before the Christmas party, but you seemed to think that because you knew Mycroft so well, you had the layout of the building under your thumb. No stranger to your talents, of course, I assumed the same. It wouldn't have surprised me if you could figure out how many toilets were in the building by your brother's turn-ups. But as we went deeper into the left wing, the expansive hallways and staircases took both of us by surprise.

"We should try not to be away for too long," I said, watching as you opened a door and shut it again after half a second's glance.

"The party's boring." You huffed, moving on down the hallway. "I'll go insane if I don't find something to occupy myself."

"Why don't you just make conversation," I offered. "You seemed pretty content when you were talking."

"Reginald was satisfactory. But his daughter was being troublesome. She wanted to introduce him to some of her fellow coworkers; he won't be open to much conversation the rest of the night. Needs to investigate a bit himself. He's unsure about how some of the male officers have been influencing his daughter." You pushed through another door and cursed. "Why does Mycroft need so many  _rooms_."

"The man told you all that?"

"Oh, of course not. We were discussing Hemingway." You threw yourself up the stairs, skipping three at a time, while I stumbled to follow you. But without skipping a beat, you continued. "You seemed to be enjoying your conversation a little too much, on the other hand."

"What? You mean with Anne?"

You turned to shoot me one of your annoying looks. I broke into a wide grin.

"Is that jealousy?" I laughed. "Is Sherlock Holmes  _jealous_?"

"I'm not  _jealous_." You insisted, disappearing around the bend. "I'm a drama queen. I need my fair share of attention."

"You've gotten your fair share of attention the past week. Hell, the past six months," I grumbled, limping my way up. "Anne's a nice girl."

"Too nice. Lestrade's after her for her hips. If he wasn't he'd see how obviously fake she is. Trying so hard to be charming. She has one of those pestering all-too-bright smiles."

"Yep. Definitely jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"I can deduce things too, Sherlock."

"I've never had much of an appreciation for feminine beauty. They all seem the same. Loud, happy, simple. Dull."

"What about Irene Adler? She wasn't like that."

"The Woman was a prostitute and professional blackmail artist, she's not a good example of my better judgement." You stood at the top of the stairs, holding the door open and waiting for me. You had a little bit of contempt in your eye as you watched me. "Can't you walk any faster? It's only psychosomatic."

"Psychosomatic or non-psychosomatic, it's still painful." I glared, walking past. "You of all people should know that."

"Whatever." You buzzed straight past me and started to poke through doors again.

"You could've talked to Lestrade," I continued. "He seemed bogged down in work, you could've helped him out. Gotten a few new cases, hmm? Work is pretty slow right now, isn't it?"

"I don't care about new  _cases_ , I just want to find this damn study." You growled, opening another door. This time, you gave a short chuckle, remarking "Here we are." You stepped inside carefully, not bothering with the light-switch, immersing yourself in the thick darkness of the room. I pursed my lips and came in after you, leaving the door open behind me to let some light in. But you didn't like that, and kicked the door shut with a distinctive  _click_.

"Sherlock?!" I thrust my hand out in front of me, looking for something to take a hold of. "Sherlock, turn on the light. I can't see a bloody thing."

I felt your hands slide around my waist, and I chirped a little louder than I'd meant to. You shushed me, lowering your head so that your curls fell across my cheeks. "The party's dull, John."

"Sorry, I didn't plan it," I grumbled back.

" _Entertain_  me."

"Sherlock, not here. Not now."

"John."

The way you breathed my name made my knees weak. You must've felt my pulse flutter, because you pulled me closer, rubbing your hands across my sides.

"Where are we?" I asked, bracing myself against you.

"The study."

"Mycroft's study?" My heart dropped into my stomach. "Oh, God, Sherlock. No, no."

"Yes." You pulled me back, dropping onto a sofa, and I fell on top of you, my legs twisted across your lap. I tried to push you away, but you grabbed my wrists and pushed me down into the cushions. The thought of doing  _this_  in Mycroft's personal study stirred up something in the pit of my stomach, and the darkness was starting to severely disorientate me.

"Sherlock, stop, hold on." I angled my knee to press against your side. "We can't shag in Mycroft's-"

"Mycroft has been treating me like a fool from the day that I moved back into the flat. He deserves to have sweat between his velvet pillows." You pushed my legs out of the way and settled between them. My heart skipped a beat and I reached out to grab your shirt, but instead grabbed your hair. You grunted.

"This isn't  _decent_ ," I whispered firmly, " _People will talk_."

"People have already been talking.  _We're engaged_."

"It isn't right. I don't want to." I batted your roaming hand. "Stop it. Stop touching me."

"Why? You're enjoying it." You fondled the zipper of my trousers. I wrestled against you, but you pinned my wrists above my head, and I couldn't break free. "Just once, John. Then I'll be satisfied."

"You'll make a mess of his study. Are the gifts even in here?"

"Where is your belt."

" _Damn_ , Sherlock! You know that's not my belt!"

"Sorry."

You loosened your grip and I pulled my arms free, angrily grabbing at the front of your shirt. We grappled, our panting becoming heavier, the little room progressively getting warmer. But you eventually won out, your lips pressing hungrily against my neck while I caught my breath again.

"Alright, alright..." I rubbed your back, trying to relax your grip on my knee. "If we're going to,  _y'know..._  could you at least pull back the curtain or something. I can't see a thing."

"Since you asked nicely." You huffed, then got up. Your footsteps echoed across the room, and you carefully tied up the window-shade, allowing the light from the London street to stream in. The glass was streaked with rain, casting strange shadows all over the room, streaming through your curls and dancing across the wallpaper. The dark red loveseat came into view, with a few of the pillows having already fallen off. Looking further made me feel even more guilty. Everything looked expensive, clean, well-polished. Except you, standing beside the window with your ruffled shirt and dangerously constricting trousers.

I swallowed, shifting as you came closer. Heat washed across my body as you eased back down on top of me.

"You never were one to approach sexuality  _subtly_ , were you?" I chuckled nervously. But it was incredibly true. You had never slept with anyone before me, and so I was still a sort of guinea pig per se for your sexual escapades. Because it was a relatively new experience for you, I gave you some grace for not knowing how to correctly initiate it. But besides, wasn't exactly normal for me, either. I hadn't bothered with anything  _homosexual_  since Afghanistan, and it wasn't necessarily textbook there either. You and I sort of figured it out as we went along, just doing what felt right and what the other person liked.

It would only be honest to say that sex was an important part of our relationship now. It was a major defining point of our change between flatmates and lovers, and the sexual attraction between us fanned the flames of the relationship we previously had. Our sex was imperfect and sometimes got sloppy, but it was intimate and satisfying for both of us. It was different from the sex I'd had with my girlfriends over the years, obviously, but I didn't mind. You could melt me with a word, and the warmth of your hands was intoxicating as they took every part of me captive.

Gently, you pushed up my jumper and began to kiss my chest, your lips wandering from my stomach to my ribs, nibbling and sucking over fresh skin and old hickey-marks. My heart beat faster. You slid my pants down, adjusting yourself to kiss the dip in my waist, and I shivered. A short groan escaped my lips before I could stop myself, but you just smiled, your eyes filled with lust.

"It feels good, doesn't it." You smirked, positioning yourself a little farther back.

"Bastard," I muttered, leaning my head back.

You tsked, lowering yourself. My face flushed as I grasped the pillows beneath me. My stomach rolled, confused between the pleasure and the guilt of intimacy in Mycroft's rooms. I felt like something was wrong, but I couldn't place where it was coming from. Was someone else here? Maybe there was a camera? or had we left the door unlocked? But soon enough I realized that the fear wasn't coming from anything  _around_  me. I was too dizzy. I couldn't seem to catch my breath.

I let you continue, running my fingers through your hair, hoping the uneasiness would pass. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing and the warmth of your hands on my hips. The colors of the room swirled behind my eyes, accompanied by a sharp wave of nausea. I grabbed a fistful of your hair, and you stopped.

"Sherlock, quit it..." I wheezed, lifting my head.

"I've barely even started." You pushed yourself up, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me close to you. Your heat made the nausea even worse, and I tried to push you off, but I was too weak. My lungs seemed to tighten, refusing to allow air in, no matter how hard I panted. I let my head fall back against the arm of the sofa, and you nuzzled my throat, unaware of what was happening.

Your weight became too much. I clawed at your hair, shoving my knees up into you sides as hard as I could manage. There was a sudden surge of panic as black squares started to build in the corners of my eyes, adrenaline shooting through my veins like poison, spinning faster and faster.

You fought me at first, but then realized that something was wrong. Your held my hands to my chest, trying to calm me down, but nothing helped. My throat constricted and my heart raced even faster. I struggled to hear you as blood thundered in my ears.

"John. Calm down. What is it?" You looked over my face, over my chest, frustrated, looking for a wound, for a problem.

But I couldn't breathe. All the oxygen in the room seemed to race away from me like water off a steep incline. My eyes darted around as the wall behind you collapsed, black blossoming from every direction. You cupped my face, pulling it close to yours, speaking loud and firm, but I couldn't hear you. I tried to yell, but my voice had rushed away too. The only thing that I could think was heart attack.  _Heart attack_. I was going to die. I was having a heart attack. I was dying.  _I was going to die_.

You were shouting now, but I couldn't see you. I couldn't hear you. My feet went cold, then my legs, then my arms. My lungs collapsed and my heart went numb. Vertigo and blackness swallowed me, and like a light-switch, I was gone.

* * *

A comment a day makes a happy Shironette.

Please tell me what you thought of this chapter, I'm always looking for feedback.

Next chapter up soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Cold darkness swirled around me like the tendrils of a winter snow-storm. It was dark, the sky devoid of stars, Baker Street empty of life or light. The door to the flat had been left open, deep snow building just inside the foyer, a mournful tune echoing out from the cavernous stairway.

I stepped carefully over the piles of snow, pulling my coat tight. The stairs screamed with frozen effort under my feet, threatening to snap at any moment. Tracks of stnow followed me up and lead through the doorway into our flat. Door ajar, the freezing wind blew through the wide windows, their billowing curtains filling the entire room.

You stood against the breeze, wearing only your dressing gown, the sleeves tied up around your arms. A dark tune shivered up from your violin, ice hanging off the neck of the instrument as you held it, cradling it against the cold. Your eyes met mine, colder even than the wind.

"Come in, John," You called, your voice thick. "Please, John, come in."

My throat tightened as you turned. Your puncture wounds seeped a white liquid, marks running from your inner arm to your wrist.

The violin's air ran sour, then stopped.

* * *

The thick smell of rubbing alcohol and air-fresheners merged together and greeted me with a burning. My stomach writhed painfully, empty, though my head and arms seemed almost comfortably numb.  _Sedatives_ , I thought in dread. The hospital sheets were unusually soft, and though I wouldn't necessarily say I was dizzy, my brain felt like it was on an entirely different sphere of reality from the rest of my body. I hated the feeling, and it stirred up old memories that I would rather have left buried.

You were seated in a chair just a pace away from me, vacantly staring at the far wall while your fingers drummed against your leg. I assumed you had seen me stir, but you gave no hint of movement. We were alone, the other beds unoccupied, which either could have been luck or your request. But either way, I was glad. It was quiet - quieter than the buzz that I attributed to hospitals, at least.

"You're awake, finally." You murmured, your tenor voice vibrating pleasantly. "How did you sleep."

"Mm..." I glanced over you. "Alright."

"Good." Your tapping stopped.

I made a half-hearted attempt to sit up, but I felt the prick of the IV in my arm and gave up. Instead, I situated myself more comfortably on my pillow and looked up at the ceiling. "Is this a hospital?"

"Yes."

"St. Bart's?"

"You're awfully alert for a man who's been unconscious the past seventeen hours and thirty-four minutes."

I looked at you. " _Seventeen_  hours? By god. What happened to me? I hardly remember a thing."

"What's the part you do remember."

"Well..." I breathed a little. "Mycroft's study."

"Yes. Where you promptly lost consciousness."

"Lost consciousness?"

"To be more specific, you stopped breathing."

"Why?"

"I was hoping that you would be able to answer that question."

I grunted. "What's the doctor's opinion?"

"He's running a few tests to finalize his diagnosis, but he's got a general idea."

"Which is?"

You continued tapping.

"Sherlock? What's his diagnosis?"

You paused, glancing up at me. Our eyes met, and I saw the emotion clouding your ice-blue eyes. Grief? No, why in the world would you be grieving. Sadness? Why would you sad? After a short pause, you opened your mouth to answer me, but a quick knock at the door interrupted you, and we both looked up.

The door opened to reveal my doctor, a stout man in his late sixties, who balanced a clipboard on his arm as he closed the door behind him. There was one main reason why I hated doctor's appointments; not just because I was a doctor myself, but because my current physician was as hard-headed as they come. Ella Thompson, my therapist, suggested him to me, and I didn't think twice about it, but I regret it every time I have to see him. At first I tried my best to get along with him, for Ella. But we met eyes and simultaneously recognized that this interaction would be just as big a power struggle as any had been.

"Hello, John," He said with a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright." I glanced up at the IV stand. "Moderately high."

"I'll turn your levels down." He handed his clipboard to you, and you glanced over it while he came around to my other side. "Did you sleep alright? Dreams, nightmares, tremors?"

"Dreams, yeah, but just abstract ones. Nothing peculiar." I stretched out my legs, watching him. "Sherlock said you ran tests."

"Yes. We've run blood samples for every kind of drug or poison that's in our database, per your fiancé's request. But we found no evidence of anything that could have caused your illness, hardly anything noteworthy at all." He took a seat just behind you, crossing his legs casually and looking over me. "Do you remember what happened, John?"

"Bits." I nervously glanced at you, though you seemed less worried about me and more worried about the results that came up on the sheet.

"Are you sure these are all correct?" You asked, grumbling.

"We've run the tests three times," The doctor sighed, "I'm  _certain_. There's no trace of anything in John's system, nothing to even hint at a drugging."

"You thought I'd been drugged?"

"That was Mr. Sherlock's first idea, but we've eliminated that possibility," He said, clicking his pen and holding his hand out for the clipboard. "Eliminated it several times, actually."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Well, John, all the signs are pointing towards a panic attack." He took the clipboard and glanced over it to refresh himself. "We haven't found any traces of foreign chemicals in your body, but you are showing signs of increased stress and emotional trauma. How have you been feeling the last few days, John?"

I blinked, my mouth feeling a little dry. "Well, I've been feeling fine..." I looked between you and the doctor, meeting two very similar cynical expressions. "Really, I have. I mean, I've been stressed, more than usual as you can imagine, with the engagement and all, but nothing besides that. Nothing to warrant a panic attack..."

"You've been feeling stressed, you said?" He hummed, scratching onto his page. He was sure to angle himself so that the clipboard balanced against his leg, therefore out of my view. "On a scale of one to ten, how stressed did you feel?"

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Er, maybe a six?"

"A six. Alright. And where are you normally?"

"Two or three? I don't know. It fluctuates with cases. What's the importance of this, again?"

"Alright. Think back to last night, to the party you and Mr. Sherlock attended. How did you feel then?"

"I felt fine," I growled.

"Were you feeling stressed that night? Anxious, frightened, upset, sad?" He continued to scratch.

"No. Not any of those things."

"Tell me about what you were feeling, then."

I huffed. "I was feeling perfectly normal. I wasn't anxious, I wasn't sad. I had been chatting with my friends just minutes before Sherlock whisked me off to the upstairs. It was  _Christmas_ , we were at a  _party_ , surrounded by  _people_ , eating and drinking, I was socializing perfectly well."

"What changed, then? After Sherlock brought you upstairs, how did you feel?"

"I..." I chuckled nervously, glancing at you again. "I don't know, I felt the same as downstairs. A little  _frustrated_  with him, but besides a little annoyance, nothing else changed."

"Alright." He tapped his pen against the plastic. "Can you recount what happened in the study?"

"Excuse me, sir, but I'd rather not," I said, flustered.

"I'm aware that you and Sherlock were intimate, and he's already given me his perspective of the situation, but can you tell me what happened without mentioning the uncomfortable details?"

"Maybe." I cleared my throat. "We were just... in the study, he was... er, well, um... and then... it felt like the room got too warm. That's what I remember. The room got very warm, almost blazing. It was hard for me to breathe, like I couldn't get enough air. I was very dizzy, nauseous."

"Mm, dizzy." He scratched my symptoms onto the pad (subtly forgetting to angle well enough). "What else? Can you expound on that?"

"Well, I'm not sure how. I just remember getting warmer, there was this... tightness, in my chest. I thought I was having a heart attack, and I got scared. I tried to kick Sherlock off, I think. I thought I was going to die."

"So, you panicked."

I made a face. "I know what you want to set this up to look like, but it definitely was  _not_  a panic attack. I would lean more towards the drugging than a panic attack."

"There were no traces of foreign-"

"-chemicals in my system, yes, you've stated that plenty of times. But you can eliminate 'panic attack' from the list of possibilities, too. I was not feeling anxious before my symptoms started, and I..." I paused to test my words. "I was never susceptible to panic attacks, even when my mental health was in question. Which, right now, it isn't, which makes it even less likely."

Silence hung too long to be comfortable, while the doctor looked over his papers and you diverted your gaze.

"It isn't, right?" I added, more a statement than a question.

"Dr. Watson, I know you're a very intelligent man, and in no way am I trying to insult that intelligence," The doctor began, but I jumped in.

"Don't start out like that,  _doctor_ , it doesn't reassure me." I blurted. "Tell me what's happening, no cover-ups, no tricks."

He sighed, but complied. "We think this could be a sign of depressive relapse." He explained. "You've struggled with chronic depression in the past, particularly in your recent past. You reported a  _significant_  improvement in the past few months, and consequently stopped visiting your therapist. However, you are at high risk of falling back into your old illness if steps are not taken to ensure your mental health."

My mouth fell open a little, and I couldn't help but laugh at him. "I'm not  _relapsing_ , doctor," I insisted. "This wasn't a panic attack."

"It was, John. All of your symptoms evidence it."

The heart monitor began to beep ecstatically as my anger mounted. "I'm not  _relapsing_. You've got your diagnosis wrong."

"Calm down, John, there's nothing to get angry about," He said, smoothly.

"Oh, no, there's  _plenty_  to get angry about," I seethed. "Run the tests again."

"We've had the tests run three times already, I'm sure if there was anything even the slightest bit off-balance we would have-"

" _Run the tests again_."

You set your hand on my shoulder, leaning down over me with a serious sort of look on your face. I opened my mouth to shout, but you shushed me. "John. Pay attention to your heart rate. I know you're not happy about this, but the sooner you're stabilized without the sedatives, the sooner you can leave." You narrowed your eyes a little, trying to better communicate the seriousness in your tone. You didn't like it, either. But causing a scene was not going to make it any easier for me.

I sighed, closing my eyes. "Fine, fine. I'll... entertain the possibility."

"That's wise of you." The doctor tore several sheets off his clipboard and handed them to you as you sat back down. "I've prescribed you a small dosage of Xanax, which I know you're familiar with. It seemed to work the best for you, and I'm hoping for the same results here."

"But w-" I stopped myself, keeping my tone in check. "But, why? The side-effects are awful."

"A necessary evil, Dr. Watson." He smiled sadly. "Your fiancé has a slip of paper with the prescription, just turn it in at the desk downstairs and they'll find yours. You need to take it twice a day, every day, and come back in to see me once it's finished. In the meantime, I would highly suggest that you arrange for another meeting with Mrs. Thompson. I'll let you know now that she and I will keep up communication, so that I will be able to accurately gauge your health and what further steps need to be taken."

I pursed my lips. "Is that really necessary?"

"I'm afraid so." He heaved and stood up, brushing down the length of his white coat. "A doctor's first priority is his patient, you should know that very well. And if I think you're a suicide risk, you'll have to be treated as one. God forbid it gets to that point, but we have to consider all possibilities, for your own sake."

My mouth went bone-dry and I looked back at the ceiling, nodding passively.

"I'll go talk to the nurse about having you released. Until then, get some rest. I'll be back soon." The doctor smiled at both of us, then took his leave.

You were unusually quiet after he left, your tapping growing softer, eyes focused on me. There was a tense wrinkle to your brow, and the heat of your gaze was starting to make me uneasy. I chuckled at you, trying to lighten the mood. "What a stubborn ass of a man, hm?" I shuffled in the bed. "Sherlock?"

With one fluid motion you rose from your seat, turning on your heel to walk toward the window. "Mrs. Hudson is awfully worried about you."

"Oh, poor woman. Does she know the reason?"

You turned to shoot me a look, another of your  _annoying_  looks, only this time there was no jealousy behind it. This time I couldn't tell, but it looked like suspicion. Angry, dejected suspicion. Trouble brewed like a storm inside you, and the apprehension turned my stomach. Lightning flashed in your eyes, thunder rumbling in your breath, and I was not looking forward to the rain.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

 

Our cab ride home was charged with tension. You spent the majority of the time watching the street pass by, brow curved, thinking. I didn't want to interrupt you, but I was boiling with frustration and itched to get it out. It didn't surprise me that my doctor was being irritating, but now it seemed like you were on his side rather than mine. People just don't understand how aggravating it is to have a world-renowned detective telling you that something that's wrong is right.

The whole thing was so stupid I couldn't even wrap my mind around it without getting heated up. It was like the doctor  _wanted_  me to be depressed. He was so ready to just jump right into the medication and the treatment, as if he had scheduled it into his calendar and had been looking forward to torturing me. And someway, somehow, he had convinced you to play along with him.

In the six months since you moved back into Baker Street, we hadn't talked much about my previous struggle with depression. You were aware of it, I knew that much. But we had never discussed it, and I never felt the need to share the details with you. I could help but believe nagging thought in the back of my mind that the doctor had said something to you, something that would've made you upset. But I couldn't think of anything, and that was probably the most nagging part.

"Are you angry?" I finally blurted, and you turned to look at me.

"Angry?" You repeated.

"Yes. Are you angry with me."

"Why would I be angry with you."

"Because I didn't tell you about the... place."

You paused, kneading your fingers. "Why is that?"

"It wasn't important, and you never asked. I wasn't trying to hide it from you, that's what I'm saying. I would've told you if you would've asked."

"Why would my partner's mental history not be important."

"Look, Sherlock, you didn't need to know." I pursed my lips, regretting my choice of words. "Well, I-... I mean, well, not that... uh..."

"Well, you have your reason." You shot me a fake grin, then turned away again. The cab pulled up to our address, and you escaped through the door before I could get another word in. I cursed under my breath and dragged myself up from the seat, stumbling out after you with my crutch stuck under my arm.

Mrs. Hudson burst through the door to meet us with a cry. She ran forward to hug me, right in the middle of the street, which shocked me - she had never done anything like that before. Maybe I looked worse than I thought I did. But I wrapped my arms around the woman's small waist and held her steady while she clutched my shoulders.

"Oh, John! Sweet, sweet John..." Her voice shuddered, eyes starting to brim with tears. "I'm so glad you're home from hospital."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I smiled at her, and she might've died right there from grief.

"Come inside, come inside. You should sit down, relax. I've made you tea, your favorite, of course. I'll bring it up to your flat." She gripped my hand, then pulled away and disappeared back into the house as fast as her hip would take her.

I blinked, glancing at you as you finished paying the cabbie. "She seemed excited."

"She's wound herself up quite a bit over this." You said flatly, and approached the door.

I bit my cheek and followed, leaning heavily on my crutch as I walked. My leg throbbed with pain, and I recognized the gentle twitch in my left hand all too well. I put it in my pocket as I walked past you, but hiding things from you was hardly possible.

You followed behind me up the stairs, walking slowly, being sure that I kept my balance. As we went into the flat, I was slapped in the face by the smell of strong bleach cleaner. Obviously Mrs. Hudson had done some work while I was out (I never would've imagined you cleaning the flat). The kitchen was swept, shelves organized, counters sponged down. The rug even looked vacuumed. I couldn't even remember the last time we'd vacuumed. She constantly made it clear that she was not our housekeeper, but she sure did a damn good job of it.

With a gauche tug you removed your greatcoat, tossing it across the arm of your chair as you walked into the kitchen. I tsked and took a seat in my own, groaning a little as I stretched out my sore leg, leaning my crutch against the mantle.

"Are we going to talk, Sherlock?" I asked. "Or are you just going to mope around?"

You shot me a look, disappearing into the bedroom. I took that to mean the latter.

Mrs. Hudson came up a few minutes later with a platter of tea, chirping on about how she tidied up the flat "just for you, John". She knew how much I hated the mess. I eagerly accepted the tea, not quite realizing how thirsty I was until I had the saucer in my hand. You came to join me, building a fire and making yourself a cuppa, tuning us out completely while the landlady droned on.

But soon enough her chattering came to a close. "You boys will want some peace and quiet, then, hmm? I'll leave you be." She patted my shoulder. "I'm just a shout away if you need me. I'm glad you're feeling better, John."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I smiled at her.

She nodded, then turned and trotted off downstairs, closing the door behind her, leaving you and I alone on either side of the subtly crackling fire.

You stirred your cuppa, sipping at it absentmindedly. I let the stillness carry for a little longer before I spoke, hoping to ease some of the tension between us, as not to start an argument.

"So..." I paused to clear my throat. "Can we at least try at a civil conversation, then?"

You nodded, swishing the tea in your mouth.

"I know you're angry, and I understand why, but I think it's getting the better of you. Can you just... pause, and  _sensibly_  tell me what you're thinking."

"John, you purposefully kept the details of your mental illness from me in an attempt to keep me oblivious to the fact that I was the one who caused it."

I watched you, careful to be sure you were finished. You brought the teacup back to your lips, your eyes locked onto mine, suspicion clouding its color.

"That wasn't my intention at all, Sherlock." I stated. "Did the doctor tell you that?"

"It was a speculation."

"And you care about speculations all-of-a-sudden?"

"If you won't answer to a speculation, let's begin with facts." You broadened your shoulders, and I shrunk back. "You were diagnosed with PTSD by your therapist years ago, and though many of the symptoms had at one time faded, they now seem to be making re-appearances. The limp, the tremor, the nightmares, to name a few. In addition, you suffered a brutal emotional trauma that left you socially paralyzed for months. You had improved over time, but only slowly. By the end of the second year, you had bought a flat, gotten a job, but you kept a degree of isolation even then. Six months ago I rejoined you, and you suddenly dropped your treatment, claiming to be perfectly alright. But men can't make jumps like that, John. Men can't just erase their problems once the good days come."

"I didn't erase my problems, Sherlock," I started.

"No, but you do seem to be ignoring them." You set your cuppa down.

"Wait, wait, just..." I put my head in my hands, trying to organize my thoughts. "You're basing this all off of  _one_  instance, one  _accident_  which my doctor called a panic attack and you yourself called a drugging."

"Process of elimination, John. Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."

"The drugging is not impossible, and the 'panic attack' theory is as improbable as they come."

"But I can no longer trust you to tell me everything, can I?" You hissed, leaning forward onto your elbows.

"Of course you can! I'll tell you anything you need to convince you that this  _wasn't_  an attack."

"Then tell me about Afghanistan."

My throat clenched tightly as your glare bit into me, demanding and cold.

"What do you-"

"You know exactly what I mean. What happened in Afghanistan, John? What is it that you never bothered to tell me about?"

I rubbed my forehead, waves of warm fear washing across my body. "That wasn't supposed to go on the record."

"It did. Your doctor used our sexuality as a trigger point for you. At first I was confused; you had never shared with me anything concerning your sexual history, and all things considered, it hadn't mattered much before. But when our physical relationship began, you continued to leave me in the dark. And there is nothing that I hate more than being oblivious."

"I didn't think it mattered."

" _Obviously_  it does matter."

I flexed my jaw, looking at the ground. "...What exactly did he tell you."

"During your second year in Afghanistan, you were raped by a fellow soldier. You spent nearly a week in the infirmary, yet you refused to reveal the identity of the rapist."

"Yes, and?"

You narrowed your eyes, thinking again. "Is there something I missed?"

"That was, what, seven years ago? I've  _moved past it_ , Sherlock. You and I have had sex before without any problems. I don't see why you think-"

"The doctor alerted me that the forceful way I approached you may have triggered your reaction."

I paused, staring at you for a long time while I gathered my words. "No. That would never happen. I've moved past it, it  _doesn't_  bother me. It's not a 'trigger', or whatever they call it. It's just a piece of my past that I'd rather not people be digging up without my permission."

"I have a right to know."

"No, Sherlock, you don't. If you wanted to know about it, you could've just asked." I frowned, standing. "I'm not hiding anything from you."

"Then you won't mind me going through your med files."

"No, you  _won't_  go through my med files, because that's an extremely childish thing to do. If you want to know something, ask me. Just  _ask_ , Sherlock."

I turned on my heel and started to walk away, then paused, looking back at you with a mix of anger and hesitation.

"And just so you know, Sherlock, I didn't want to bring up the...  _thing_  because of my own personal reasons. I don't want to remember it, I don't want to talk about it. That's all."

You raised an eyebrow. "The rape?"

"No. The ward."

I nodded to myself and marched down the hall, stopping just outside the bedroom door to march right back, holding my open hand in front of your face.

"I'm not taking the pills, but don't get any ideas." I prodded with my fingers. "Hand them over."

You made a grunting noise and pulled the bottle out of your coat pocket, placing it in my palm.

"I'll show that damn doctor. I'm not depressed. And I'm not some anxiety patient, either." I grumbled, going back into our room and shutting the door tight.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

We received the call from Greg at a crisp 4 o'clock in the morning. The weather that night was miserable, freezing rain through most of it, with a fierce bite to the wind that whipped the collar of your greatcoat like a flag. There was a case opened in Brent, not too far from us, so we took a cab. You grumbled something about "not getting out of bed for anything less that a seven", but nonetheless you splashed cold water on your face and tied your scarf.

Sally met us outside the building as we arrived, standing behind the yellow police tape at the entrance. She greeted you with the same annoyed smirk as always, but her eyes flashed when she saw me. In a ruffled sort of tone, she turned to you. "Uh, you sure John's good to be here?" She asked.

"Why wouldn't he be?" You replied.

"Yeah," I added, looking between you and her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were just in the hospital." She put her hands on her hips. "This scene isn't very pretty."

"He'll be fine." You ducked under the tape, then pulling it open for me to crutch under. "We need at least one qualified medical expert on the case."

"Rick's qualified," She countered.

"If that were true, I wouldn't be needed here, would I?" You shot her a glare, stalking inside. She and I shared a look, then followed.

The lights from the gym were excruciatingly bright. Two levels of undisturbed exercise equimpment lay around, stinking with accumulated sweat. Mirrors surrounded the length of the room, and I could catch my own reflection in one of them. Not much privacy here, I noted. The sign-in desk was lengthly, with offices further toward my left. A tile path cut through the carpet, leading toward the locker-rooms, where various police and employees were milling around like flies. Greg spotted us as we approached and waved us in.

"Sherlock, great, you're here. The clean-up crew are wanting to get in right away to fix stuff up. Needless to say the manager isn't very happy about this."

"Well, is it a murder or a suicide," You asked.

"We don't know. It looks like a murder. The security cameras were down, they were supposed to be replaced two days ago, but the guy never showed. An attendant came in to open up, must've stumbled onto a burglar. Just look at the state of those lockers."

You paused to glance at the wall of twisted, broken metal.

"Burglar, you said. What happened to the attendant?"

"Shot through the head. Had the gun in his hand, but there are plenty of murder cases made to look like suicides."

"You're getting better. Who questioned the burglary theory."

"I did." Inserted Sally. "There's no sign of forced entry, not anywhere. That man was the only person in the building."

"That's a fact?"

"You're the great Sherlock Holmes, why don't you tell me?" She rolled her eyes.

You tsked, turning in a circle to survey the room one more time. Your eyes studied the collapsed rows, then to the body, then back to the rows. Gears were turning in your head, working to connect all the pieces and draw in every detail. With two long strides you stood back, dropping your head to scan intensively across the floor. "Where's the rod?"

"Rod?"

"Yes. Obviously our burglar used a rod. Most likely one from the gym floor. Ah, here it is." You ducked into the shower room, pulling out a long metal pole. You weighed it in your hands. "Yes, this is it. Our blunt object."

"You shouldn't tamper with the evidence," Sally bit.

"It doesn't matter. He wore gloves." You spun the rod in your hand. "John, examine the body. Tell me what you see."

I took in a breath, crutching my way over to the attendant, flanked by Lestrade. The young man was pushed in a corner, leaning against the wall at his right side. His arm had fallen into his lap, the gun removed, but his finger still curled where the trigger had once been. The sight of him made my stomach turn, but I forcefully shook any emotion from my thoughts and focused on the facts. A large part of his head had been blown out, with bits of blood and human matter sprayed against the wall. His expression was tight, pained, with some of his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

"John," You repeated. "Tell me what you see."

"Er..." I snapped on my gloves and folded my leg to get down closer, tilting his chin just slightly. "He's young. I'd guess... early or mid-twenties."

"University student."

"Very possible." I pulled at the cuffs of his shirt and trousers. "He's in good shape. Must be athletic. His expression is very distressed. Eyebrows drawn, eyes clenched."

"Anything else?"

I swept my eyes across his body, looking for any noteworthy details. "He didn't have the chance to change before walking in. Still has all his rain-clothes on. Er, other than that, I don't see much. I'll keep looking."

While I turned back to the body, I saw Greg walk from the corner of my vision and approach you. I already knew what he was going to say, it had been written across his forehead from the minute we walked in. He slapped his hand down on your shoulder and pulled you close, trying to talk hushedly. But he never really was very good with whispering, and it was easy enough to pick up on it.

"Is John okay, Sherlock?" He watched me. "Mycroft said he was in pretty bad shape."

"Mycroft tends to exaggerate. He'll be fine."

"He'd better be fine. Poor man's been through more than enough already. You keep him healthy, you hear me?"

"Let me worry about John. I've got things quite under control.

"Sure?"

You nodded, continuing to spin the rod, your eyes flickering between me and the lockers. There was something about you that made me think you already had this case solved, that you were just waiting for your moment of truth to reveal everything and leave us all licking at your heels. You liked it that way, after all. You liked the spotlight, the drama. I shook my head and focused back on the shot wound, getting as close as I felt I could without sniffing it.

This kind of wound wasn't new to me. I had seen plenty of shot wounds in Afghanistan, all in various places, due various causes. Most, of course, were on the battlefield. Men who had gotten chunks of flesh or entire limbs torn off, ribcages blown open. Some of the most gruesome cases didn't come from the Taliban, however. I'd seen a handful of men with their faces ripped apart from a trigger aimed misprecisely, holding a gun to their own heads with quivering fingers not quite able to line it up right. I knew this wound. Their turmoil was too great for them. They didn't want to taste the gun, they wanted to  _feel_  it.

A fresh streak of pain shot through me. Sally was right; this scene wasn't pretty. Even on a normal day, this would be a hard one, much less a bad day.

I wrestled my thoughts in, desperately trying to evade any memories of the ward. But they seemed unavoidable, laced in tight with the body, with the case. I knew exactly what this man had been feeling before he pulled that trigger, and it scared me. This mans body that could have very likely have been my own a year or two ago. Lestrade's brown eyes watched me carefully, glowing with similar thoughts.

"What's your conclusion, John?" You pulled me from my trance.

"Suicide. Obviously." I grunted and pulled myself up, taking a little assistance from Greg. "Emotional distress. His eyes are slightly reddened, puckered around the lashes. Angle of the shot, position of the body, it's pretty clear."

"I'm thinking it was a result of stress from university," You added, "Though the trigger might turn out to be different after a little digging in his file."

"But... what about the lockers?" Greg swung his arms out. "How do you explain that?"

"Simple. Suppressed anxiety, stress, severe self-loathing, boiling up and bursting forth as a single emotion." You gripped the pole, stepping closer to the lockers. "Rage."

The entire room fell quiet as you took that first swing, then the second, then the third, your hands gripped over the rod like stone. Your entire body contoured into your vicious thrashes, coat swirling around your ankles as the wall crumbled at your fingertips. Sally took a step to stop you, but Greg held her back, and the two just watched as you poured yourself onto the metal pannelling. My eyes remained glued to your figure as your muscles pulled and snapped with the miserable adrenaline of a suffering youth.

When you were finished, you paused, your shoulders heaving to regain breath. The tension hung as you fixed your hair and set the rod against the wall, leaving the rest of us in apprehensive silence.

"Case closed."

* * *

"There is no way in hell I'm letting you make tea." I sighed, laying my coat on the back of the kitchen chair. "You seem to enjoy drugging my drinks a little too much. Remember the  _last_  time?"

"The Veriks case was ages ago." You countered, falling into your armchair. "It wasn't that bad."

"I had a fever for a week." I narrowed my eyes, running the kettle under the tap. "I'll make my own pot, thank you."

You grumbled, but didn't argue. I turned up the heat on the stove, then moved to flip through the newspaper you had planted on the kitchen table. The sun had just started to come up, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't yet made an appearance, which I was more than a little grateful for. I had a bit of a headache, exhausted from both my lack of sleep and the stress from the suicide case that morning. You, of course, read my tension right off my skin.

With a gentle push you rose from your chair, walking into the kitchen to rustle through the cabinets. "Medicine, John. Doctor's orders."

"I'm not taking it, I already said that. I don't need it."

"It will help."

"Nothing needs to be helped." I shot you a look. "I would rather not discuss it again. I doubt either of us have anything new to say."

You turned the pill-bottle over in your hand. "You're in pain."

"I've got a headache. That's it." I hung my crutch off a chair to emphasize. "I'll just have a cuppa and go lay down for a little while. I have to work today, one o'clock shift."

"No, you don't. I called in and let them know you weren't going to be available until your health stabilizes."

I turned to stare at you. "You did  _what_?"

"I called your office and-"

"Sherlock, that's  _my_  business, not yours."

"You're going to have to start getting used to me in your business, John. You're not going to be getting rid of me."

I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. It was awful how obstinate you could be sometimes, with that smug smile plastered over your face. Gently, however, it faded as you examined the bottle in your hand, taking a seat and setting it on the table between us. Neither of us said anything, but your eye gave me a hint of the stubborn will you had to see me take the medication.

"I saw how you reacted to the body," You stated.

"Of course I had a reaction, anyone would have. It was disgusting, not to mention it was a lot like the suicides in Afghanistan. What do you want from me?"

You shifted in your seat. I groused, turning back to grab a teacup.

"Do you want a cuppa, Sherlock?"

"Sure. No sugar."

I pulled off the kettle just as it began to whistle, holding it carefully as I filled the cups.

"Why is it that you're so opposed to treatment, John? You're acting as if your doctor is asking you to do some horrible, hideous thing, but honestly it would only do you good. Are you humiliated by it?"

I sighed, setting your teacup in front of you.

"No one else has to know about the prescription. It can be as private or as public as you want." You stirred your tea.

"It isn't that, Sherlock."

"Then what is it?"

"It's just..." I tapped the rim of my cup. , my words choking in my mouth. You watched with an eager stare, which didn't exactly help. But I cleared my throat and struggled to begin. "The, er... The side-effects were awful."

"Side-effects fade."

"They took a long time to fade. The doctor ended up putting me on three dozen other medicines to help deal with them, and then I had to take more medicine to deal with those side-effects. I don't like the decisions my doctor makes, and I don't think he should be putting me on medication when I'm not even showing signs of depression."

"Actually-"

"Don't. You  _both_  are getting stress and anxiety mixed up. I've just gotten engaged, there's a lot that I need to think through and deal with right now."

"That's exactly what we're worried about. If this new stress causes a relapse, it could be extremely destructive to you."

"I won't relapse." I said, matter-of-factly.

"You're inviting huge risks onto yourself."

"Risks for what." I muttered.

"Emotional instability. Mental breakdown. Panic attacks, much more severe than the first. Anxiety disorders.  _Suicide_ , John."

My heart met an uncomfortable sting, and I nearly dropped my teacup. Your eyes narrowed slightly as I set it down, glancing up at you angrily, trying to decide what approach would bring the minimum amount of suspicion. But you kept prodding, memorizing my every move, the corners of your lips pricking with interest.

"You're affected by that, aren't you. You don't want to remember it."

"Stop it, right now." I bit my cheek, looking around the room for something else to focus on.

"You wanted to kill yourself."

"Yes, Sherlock, thank you for that fine distinction." My voice wavered no matter how hard I tried to sound composed. I lifted my teacup, but my hand trembled so badly that I had to switch hands before I spilled it on myself. I tried to keep talking, but I couldn't manage words, so I glanced away and sipped at my tea, trying as hard as I could to regain control.

"John, you're shaking."

"I  _fucking know_ , alright?" I slammed my cup down and put my elbows on the table, cradling my head. "You're just  _trying_  to upset me, now."

"You need to tell me, John. I need to know what's scaring you."

"You're not my goddamn therapist."

"You said you didn't want me rummaging through your files. So, I'm asking. What's scaring you."

I looked up at you, pursing my lips. "Why  _now_? You've already got me worked up."

"Then you should just get it overwith."

I folded my hands over my eyes. "It was three months."

You said nothing, sitting back a little in your chair.

"Three months... in the, er, place." I rubbed my forehead. "I had called Greg... He was trying to be supportive, y'know. I didn't really have anyone else. He said I should call him whenever I felt low. It was two in the morning, but he came right over. I had a gun."

"Did you try to kill yourself?"

"...almost."

"What did he do."

"He stayed with me. Sat with me, let me talk it out. Spent the night. The next morning he got Sally to help get me to the hospital. He was worried about me, and he thought the best thing for me would be to leave me in a hospital's care until I was stable again. I didn't agree with him, but I decided to try it out anyway."

"What happened."

I balled my fists. "It made me so much worse. It was a tiny room, white, I was in solitary. I was so alone there, devoured by grief and anger. As time passed I got worse, and they blamed it on me, instead of on the room. They let me leave less and less. I was exhausted, weak, angry, depressed. There was no one for me there. I couldn't function, and because I couldn't function, I was trapped."

You fell silent, the gears in your head turning.

"I'd nearly gone insane by the time Greg got me out. He'd had a long battle with the hospital, since my doctor is an arse who doesn't take orders. But he got me released and took me to stay with him. It took months to rehabilitate me, months of therapy sessions and long walks and crap telly."

"And you got better."

I nodded, lifting my cup again with my better hand, inhaling the smell before drinking.

"But, now, you're afraid of going back there. Of feeling that way again."

"No. I  _won't_  feel that way again."

"You're terrified."

"And you're a dickhead." I pushed up from the table, collecting my tea, the newspaper, and the pill-bottle in my shaking hands. "I'm going to my room now. Please don't bother me."

"It isn't good for you to be alone for long periods of-"

"Don't, Sherlock. Just... don't start. I'm going to sleep off this headache. Don't bother me." I pressed my lips together, beginning a slow limp toward the bedroom and shutting the door quietly behind me. You made no more complaints.

* * *

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Next part up soon.

 


	6. Chapter 6

I'm really unsure about this chapter and it's kind of driving me crazy, so while I put some miles between myself and it, if there's any tips you can give me to improve, I'd love you eternally and forever.

Enjoy.

* * *

I swear, sometimes you can be the biggest arse the world had ever seen. I sat on the floor beside my bed for nearly ten minutes, my head clasped in my hands, trying as hard as I could to keep my feet on the ground. My lungs were feeling incredibly tight. Luckily the breathing exercises that my therapist had taught me ages ago came to mind, and I started desperately inhaling through my mouth and exhaling through my nose, trying to force my heart to slow down.

There was just too much stress right now, and you weren't helping. Thinking made my chest throb with pain. I focused on the smell of my tea, wafting up from the bed-side table.

My medication bottle was sitting beside the tea, just within reach, almost tauntingly so. I glared at it. I hated everything about it to the very core. But everyone was telling me that I was in danger, everyone was warning me, everyone seemed to be pointing at that damned little bottle as the solution. I turned the option over in my head, cringing at the thought of the dizziness it brought, and the disorientation, and the nausea.

I looked at it for a long time.

If I just took it for a  _little_  while, long enough to prove to the doctor and the therapist that I wasn't depressed, that would be fine, right?

Ugh, but it was still awful. And taking anti-depressants over Christmas had to be the sorriest thing I could have thought up.

Then again, the holidays made various types of relapses much more common. I couldn't stand to think of what might happen if I sunk that low again.

When I got out of that ward, when I was finally on my own, I swore to myself that I would get better. I swore that I would keep living, that I woud be strong, that one suicide was enough for Baker Street. I never wanted to be that way again. I never wanted to feel that same emptiness, the same sadness, the same loneliness. But now, you were telling me to brace myself, because it was coming back. Of course I was scared. Of course I was terrified.

I made my decision. If this thing was going to come back, I wasn't going to face it blindly, the way I did before. I reached for the bottle, unscrewing the cap and knocking two of the tiny tablets into my hand. It turned my stomach just to see them, but I closed my eyes and tossed them into my mouth, swallowing them with a mouthful of tea.

There. The deed was done.

Slowly I crawled up into bed and curled myself around one of the pillows, continuing the breathing excercises, gently pushing my body to relax.

* * *

I wasn't sure when sleep finally crept in. One moment I was staring idly at the far wall, and the next I was surrounded by the warm morning winds of Afghanistan, my boots kicking up dust. Mountains rose in the distance, darkened by the contrasting sun. The scent of my tea drifted through the air, and something about the wind felt soft.

Quietly you stepped towards me, sitting beside my hip on the edge of the bed. You watched me, silent, with a sad sort of look on your face. I turned and gazed at you, my eyes still clouded with sleep. By the light in the windows, it must have been at least afternoon. You reached down and smoothed my hair from my eyes.

"You took the medicine." You whispered. "Good, John."

"Only because I knew you'd pitch a fit with the doc," I slurred, yawning. "I'm so damn tired."

"He said it would make you drowsy. It's alright, just rest." You rubbed my shoulder and stood up, brushing off your coat and tying your scarf around your neck.

"Where are you going...?"

"Mycroft's." You looked down to give me a look, but I was too tired to register which one it was. "Mrs. Hudson is upstairs. For now, sleep off the medicine."

"Yessir."

"I'll be back soon, John." You leaned down to press your lips against my temple, smoothing my hair back gently. I nodded into my pillow and closed my eyes, falling back into sleepy bliss. But just before I heard you step out, you eased open the drawer of my bedside table.

* * *

Maybe it isn't my place to criticise you. You did redeem yourself, it just took some time. The next morning, you made me breakfast the best you could with what little ingredients we had in the kitchen. Served coffee, too - drug-free, as you promsed. There was gentleness in the tips of your fingers as you brushed them beside my wrist. You made it a point to be considerate to my nerves, and I appreciated it. I still didn't drink the coffee, though.

We slipped through the day without much of a bother. I was exhausted throughout the entire morning and into the afternoon, not wanting to eat or work or do much of anything. I curled up in your armchair with a large blanket and watched crap telly until I felt my brain beginning to disintegrate. You fluttered around within the house, finishing up some of your experiments and starting new ones, keeping yourself reasonably busy. Every now-and-again you would lean over the back of the chair and rustle my hair, ask how I was feeling. Then you would disappear into your work again.

The temperature had taken a turn for the worst, and the snow hadn't stopped since yesterday, piling up thick on the roads and making it nearly impossible to get anywhere, so we stayed bundled up inside. It was a little strange, just staying home with you throughout the day. I felt somewhat like a retiree. Your work was slow, mine nonexistent, so we wandered around the house aimlessly, spitting remarks every so often, just generally enjoying each other's company.

Days dragged on this way, with no real aim or purpose. We went out for groceries (which was a bad idea) and played a lot of Cluedo (which was an equally bad idea), but by the third day we were both ready to get out. Early that morning, you kindly let me know that you had scheduled an appointment with my therapist that afteroon. As overjoyed as I was, I still found it difficult to rouse myself, even as the hours ticked lazily by. My feet dragged a little on the way out to catch a cab.

Therapy was dull, and though I had complained all weekend about going out, I itched to be home, or at least out from under Ella Thompson's microscope. She seemed just as condescending as my doctor, which aggrivated me, but I let it go in the name of past usefulness. We made a date for our next appointment the following Friday (which would hopefully be free of the medicine's side-effects), and I made a beeline for the door.

When I got back, I sighed with relief in the warm fortress of the flat. The newsmen weren't kidding when they said we'd reached the negatives. I kicked the snow off my boots, taking my time in unbuttoning my coat.

"You've gotten a parcel, John," You shouted into the hallway. "I left it on the stair."

"I see it, thanks." I grunted, reaching for the small brown box waiting for me, examining the packaging and tag. It was marked with my parents' address in Wales. Maybe a Christmas gift? How nice of them. I hung my coat and trodded upstairs.

"Got it in this morning. Had to sign," You announced, typing away at your (no, my) computer. "From your parents. A book, expensive one. Most likely a textbook or some kind of limited edition. Classic. I'm thinking hardcover with leather."

"Yes, thank you for the demonstration, show-off." I set the package on the kitchen table and moved to the cabinet, grabbing the kettle. "It's frigid outside this morning."

"I'll take your word for it." You shot me a smug smile, and continued typing.

I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, giving you a glance. "Why are you using my computer?"

"Mine was in the kitchen."

I looked at the table. There was your computer, beside my box. And then there was you, sitting comfortably at your desk not four meters away. I was reminded why I had given up trying to understand you a long time ago.

"How was your, uh." You paused your typing. "Appointment."

"It was fine, it went fine." I rubbed my hands together.

"Good." You continued. "What did you two discuss."

"The usual stuff," I answered. "How I had been feeling, how had I been sleeping, had I been updating my blog."

"Do you feel any better?"

"A little, yes. She said to give you her congratulations."

"Have you opened the parcel yet?"

"Well, no, I was just going to make tea. My hands are about frozen solid."

"Open it. I want to know if I was right."

"You're always right, Sherlock," I sighed, reaching for a kitchen knife. I cut the packing tape on the top of the box, opening it and peering inside. The gift looked somewhat like a book, but it was wrapped in brown packing paper. I pulled it out and weighed it. "Yep, definitely a book."

You turned in your chair to watch as I tore the paper away.

"A Bible," I exclaimed, looking at it carefully. I couldn't help but raise it to my nose, inhaling in the smell of fresh leather. "It's lovely."

"I was right on all counts." You turned back to the computer screen.

"Hmm." I set the Bible down to pour myself my tea.

"What is that murmur for." You asked.

"Oh, nothing." I sniffed at the tea and chuckled. "Just thinking. A gift like this from my parents is strange, but at the same time, it's really not. Y'know?"

"No, I don't."

"Sometimes they get really serious about the whole Catholic business, and invest a lot into it, but then there are other times when they couldn't care less."

"Typical of most religious people," You added.

"Yes, I guess so. It didn't matter much when Harry and I were kids, but I guess this is evidence they've changed their minds a little." I turned it over. "I'll have to write them a thank-you note."

"Are they orthodox Catholics?"

"Generally speaking." I sipped my tea and put the Bible under my arm. "Did you get the paper this morning?"

"Armchair."

"Thanks." I walked over to your chair and took the paper, slipping it under my arm along with the Bible. "I'll be in the other room. Don't want to bother you."

"That's probably for the best."

I pursed my lips, then turned on my heel and strode off toward the bedroom, tossing the paper and the Bible onto the cover of my bed and taking a seat so I could pull off my wet socks. I had been a little worried that my parents wouldn't accept my relationship with you, but they had sent us a gift, hadn't they? Obviously I had just been overreacting again. I had nothing to worry about.

The corner of an envelope stuck out of one of the pages near the end of the Bible. I raised an eyebrow, tossing a sock into the laundry hamper before reaching for the little white slip, pulling the letter out of the book and turning it over. On the front, "John" was written in my mother's handwriting.

* * *

You hardly noticed when I came back into the room. I stood at the mouth of the hall, my eyes blurred, watching you in silence while I found my voice.

"Sherlock..." I croaked.

"What is it, John. I'm working."

"Could you give me a moment... please."

"What is-" You looked up at me and froze, your clear blue eyes fixed on my bloodshot ones. "-the matter, John?"

I gripped the letter in my hands. "I got a note."

"Well, what does it say?"

"...er, well, it's from my parents..."

You blinked and looked back down to your computer screen.

"What does it say."

"I don't really..." I cleared my throat. "Well, I don't really know how to explain it..."

"It already is explained, isn't it. Read it to me." You said, still not focused on me.

My throat went dry, but I looked down at the page, unfolding it slowly and glancing across the words one more time before I opened my mouth.

"Dearest John," I started. "We would like to begin this letter by reminding you how much we love you. As your parents, we are responsible to always do what we believe will be best for you. Recently we have recieved word of your engagement to your flatmate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and will respond by kindly informing you that we will not in any way bless the marriage of you and Mr. Holmes. As members of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, we believe that homosexuality is an abominable sin, punishable by an eternity in Hell. For this reason, we will not accept your sinful relationship with Mr. Holmes. We will always continue to love you, and we will pray for you constantly, that you will turn from your sinful ways. But until you repent of your homosexuality, we wish to have no further contact with you or your spouse. God bless you, John, and may your heart be open to His mercy. Signed, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Watson."

I let my hand fall slowly, tears now brimming in my eyes again. You looked struck, your eyes wide and skin pale.

"They're practically  _disowning_  me, Sherlock." I whispered, my voice shuddering. "My own parents."

"John." You stood from your chair.

I pressed my back against the wall of the hallway, sliding down to the floor with a tired thump.

" _My own parents_." I brought my knees to my chest and leant my forehead against them. "Jesus Christ. What am I supposed to do?"

You knelt beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. You didn't quite know what to say, and it was discouraging. "John. I'm sorry, John." You slowly pried the parchment from my fingers, setting it on the floor. I brought in a long breath of air, feeling warm tears begin to flow.

"That's it, then. That's their opinion." I laughed angrily, crushing my hands into fists. "I was so worried about what they'd say, I guess I don't need to worry anymore."

"John-"

"For fuck's sake, don't say anything, alright." A sob began to churn in my stomach. " _Abominable_ , they called me. Dammit, Sherlock, parents aren't supposed to say that."

You gently rubbed my shoulders, watching me very carefully. Everything that had been building since therapy now lurked just beneath my skin, spreading like tar, clogging every veins and making my arms heavy. Tears began to fall, streaming red-hot across my face, pooling under my chin. My hands started to tremble, shaking so violently that you reached down to steady them.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," I gasped, rolling my head back and forth.

"Shh, John. Look at me." You cupped my cheek, stroking it with your thumb. Your eyes were still clear, blue, ice cold, perfect against mine, puffy and bloodshot, ugly and empty and raw.

I reached for you, and you leaned into me, wrapping your arms around my chest. My lungs began to close up, answering the misery that washed through every part of me. You pulled me into your lap and cradled my aching body, but I already knew that there was no saving me. Grief spread like fire through my limbs and I gripped your shoulders, dizzied by the emotion and the pain.

"Sherlock, Sherlock,  _please_ ," I shuddered, clinging to you with all the energy I had left. "I can't... You can't..."

"I won't." You pressed your lips against my forehead, your paleness cold against my sun-scarred skin. I closed my eyes.

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

Hey guys, thank you for keeping up with this.

From here on out, I'm going to be updating this every Sunday and Thursday afternoon until completion. So please bookmark and enjoy.

* * *

The walls swelled with light. You leaned in your armchair, your head arched back, warm sunlight dancing off your throat. A sweet breeze spread its homely glow throughout the room, bringing the smell of sugar and cream. You soaked it all in, still; meditating silently along with the soft hum of the morning.

I took a place against the doorframe, spellbound. The apple of your throat bobbed as you turned to gaze back, your eyes flickering to life.

"There you are." Your lips bent into a lazy smile. "I was waiting."

"You're beautiful." I sighed, resting my head against the door.

"Am I?"

Slowly you stood, your collar falling open around your neck. My breath caught as you stepped forward, your fingers fluttering across my skin.

"Don't leave me, John." You whispered. "Don't leave me."

* * *

I stirred, my lungs sore and aching. We were spun within each other's arms, coccooned within thick layers of blankets, my head cushioned in the crook of your arm. You gently ran your fingers across my back, the smooth vibration of tenor in your chest as soothing as it was secure.

"Don't cry, John, they're just dreams."

Steadily, straining, I twisted the fabric of your shirt around my fingers, hands trembling with fear.

* * *

Cold darkness swirled around me, menacing and sharp. The world was dark, a blank sky stretching overhead, a Baker Street empty of life or light. Our door had been left open, deep snow building just inside the foyer, a mournful tune echoing out from the crooked stair.

You stood against the breeze, wearing only your dressing gown, the sleeves tied up around your arms. A dark song shivered up from your violin as ice hung off the neck. You held it carefully, cradling it against the cold. Your eyes met mine, crueler than the wind.

* * *

We slept until the windows were bright.

* * *

You tried to ease me off your chest, but as I woke I fought back in a sleepy panic, my arms looping tight around your waist, holding you down.

"Stop, stop, stay..." I cried, burying my face in your shoulder.

"John..." You whispered, rubbing my arms. "There's a case, John. Lestrade needs me."

"Please don't, Sherlock." I sniveled. My entire body was shaking now. "Please don't. Please."

You massaged my sides until my arms loosened, and then swiftly escaped, sliding away and pulling the blankets up around my shoulders. The new cold made me shiver. Your sheets smelled like you, and I breathed it in.

"Before I leave, take this." You offered me a pill, along with a rubber water-bottle. "It'll help."

I had no breath left to refuse. I swallowed. Sleep came.

* * *

Around seven o'clock, the door to the flat slammed open, jolting me from my comfortable spot tucked between the pillows of our bed. You trodded down the hall and poked your shoulders through the doorway. I blinked at you, and you blinked back. "John, you're awake."

"For a while now." I sighed, setting the newspaper down beside my knee. I had drawn the curtains, leaving the bed-side lamp light enough so that I could read, but dark enough that I couldn't do much else. You glanced over me with a suspicious prick of your eyebrow.

"It's nearly seven."

"Yes, I know."

"It isn't good for your health if you sit in the dark all day." You flipped the light, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

"It is good for my health if I relax," I argued, rubbing my forehead.

"Well you don't have to be shut up in your room to do that. Come and sit with me."

I complained, but complied.

"Do you want tea? Biscuits? You must be hungry." You quickly flew back into the living room, bending over to start a sloppy fire.

"Not at all," I said, groping to the window to look out into the street. Snow had piled up to nearly a meter, and as we spoke the plow was working up and down our road. The sidewalk was smashed in with footprints, but the machine was building a solid wall of snow and ice between it and the street. Nothing was falling at the moment, but dark snow-clouds loomed overhead. I frowned.

You turned to watch me. "You should still eat something."

"No." I stepped back and sat down. "I doubt I could stomach anything, anyway."

"Have you been sick?" You came over and pressed a hand to my forehead. I pushed it away.

"No, no. I just have no appetite."

"At least let me make you tea."

"Not in a mood for tea." I started to unfold my paper, but you stuck your head above it.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes! Jesus. Stop bothering me." I flipped the paper to cover your face.

"You can't be angry at me for taking precautions," You said, straightening.

"I can, and I am. You're the one who told me to come out here, don't make me sorry for it." I aggressively read the page.

You mumbled something and disappeared into the kitchen, trailed by bangs and sharp clicks. I glanced across my shoulder. You were grabbing various things off the table and stuffing them into the cabinets. It could very loosely even be called cleaning. But since when does Sherlock Holmes clean?

"Mycroft should be here any minute. Do me a favor, John, and don't sound so... tired when you speak. I would rather my brother not put in a negative word to your doctor after tonight. And don't mention the whole letter debacle. Alright?"

"Is he here on business, Sherlock? Or are you just trying to convince him I'm healthy."

"A little of both." You came around the chair, a damp cloth in your hand, and gently teased my forehead with it.

"The hell?" I batted him away. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to bring some color back into your face. Have you taken your medication?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Try to mention that."

"I'm not putting on a show for him, Sherlock." I sighed.

You huffed, then spun to look out the window. "He's turning the corner. Be friendly. Do you have your crutch? Oh, forget the crutch. Act normal."

"In that case, I'd better dig up my 'normal' newspaper. Sit in my 'normal' chair."

"Shut up."

Twirling, you tossed the rag across the room and into the kitchen sink and simultaneously grabbed the violin case from beneath the desk, setting it against your chair while you slapped it open. You seized instrument and tucked it beneath your chin, holding the bow and running it along the strings to make sure it was in tune. Beginning in the mid-part of some song, you began to play just a few seconds before I heard the car outside.

Per the usual, your bother didn't bother with knocking. The door opened and shut, and your brother's voice echoed up the stairway. "Should I leave my coat here, then?" He called up.

"That would be fine, yes." I answered.

Mycroft climbed the stairs, tapping his umbrella free of lingering snowflakes, with a long white package under his arm. His small eyes flashed around the flat and landed on me, glinting like steel. "Hello, John. It's good to see you again."

"You too, Mycroft." I struggled to my feet to greet him properly, but he shook his head, and I sat back down.

"I've brought you your gift." He handed his package to me. "I figured it would be better to give it to you myself, as my brother has fallen into the destructive habit of forgetting things. Tell me, Sherlock, when did you remember that you had invited me? Ten minutes ago? Five?"

"I have known," You defended.

"Have known, alright. Then was it traffic that held you up? Your cabinets are practically screaming with extra weight. Cleaned in a hurry, did you? Don't you think it's peculiar too, that you built your fire to look aged? You have to remember who taught you that trick." Mycroft took your seat. "And next time, try to at least remember to take off your coat and scarf before you play. I'm not a fool, Shirley."

"Don't call me Shirley." You grumbled, putting your violin back in its case.

"John." Mycroft cocked his head toward me, and I lowed the paper. "Has Sherlock been looking after you?"

"Yes, he has, Mycroft. He's been very helpful." I lifted the paper again.

"Is that the truth, or is that what he told you to say."

"It's the truth." I frowned. "Is it that hard to believe that your brother could be responsible."

"We are talking about the same brother, aren't we?" Mycroft smirked. "It's not easy for Sherlock to be responsible when he's not present. Tell me, how long have you been here, by yourself?"

I fidgeted, and he nodded his head.

"That's what I thought."

"I've had a case," You insisted. "And it was just today. I've stayed with him the rest of the time."

"Let's let John speak for that."

You both looked expectantly at me, and I cleared my throat. "I would rather not get involved with your squabbles."

"You should have thought of that before you aggreed to marry into the family," Mycroft commented.

"Don't work him up," You grumbled, pulling over a chair. "That wasn't the reason I had you here."

"Right." Your brother leaned his umbrella against the arm of the chair and crossed his legs, nonchalant. "I've combed through every centimeter of my kitchen, my halls, and my study, but there's no evidence of meddling. The silver and glassware were all inspected, no traces of anything. Though I did realize that my dish-soap is needing to be replaced."

"What about your staff."

Mycroft snorted. "My staff are airtight. I don't take risks such as hiring corruptible staff."

"Wine."

"Held in the cellar and the bar only. There was nothing amiss." He rubbed the bottom of his lip. "If there had been anything out of the ordinary, I would have seen it, or Anthea would have seen it."

"So there was no chance I could have been drugged," I asked, a little weaker than I'd meant.

"Not from my kitchen."

"You didn't have anything from outside the kitchen, did you?" You asked. "No candies or suspicious drink?"

"The only drink I had was Anne's champagne," I answered, honestly.

"Anne?" You turned to Mycroft. "Who's Anne?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade's guest," He answered, flatly.

"Remember, red hair, pale, a little thin? You met her. She congratulated us. Brought us champagne."

"Anne. Anne. Yes, I remember her now." Your eyes sparkled, and you glanced back at your brother. "Lovely, wasn't she? Geo's gotten himself a very nice little goldfish, now, hasn't he? Aren't you positively jealous?"

Mycroft squirmed in his seat, his cheeks flushing angrily. "Constantly bringing up the Inspector is not going to make me any more interested in him, brother mine."

I raised my eyebrow, looking suspiciously between you, but I really had no interest in digging up any dirt about Greg. "Alright, I'm done. Sorry, don't want to hear it." I huffed, collecting my paper again. "You guys can handle whatever your business is without me. And don't disturb the neighbors with racket, either. It's getting late." I nodded to myself and took my leave, hobbling back down the hall and closing the door tight behind me.

As I unfolded my paper for the fourth (or perhaps fifth) time that evening, I couldn't help but notice the silence still hanging in the other room. Your dark tenor vibrated easily through the thin walls.

"He will get better, Mycroft. You haven't given him enough time."

"I think it's quite clear that we've already run out of time, Sherlock."

Your voices then got quieter, as if sensing my presence in the walls.

* * *

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Next chapter up Thursday.


	8. Chapter 8

The weather had relaxed by the next day, the heavy snow-clouds gone, bright sunlight working to melt the thick snow. Huge piles of mud and slush had found its way into the road, turning everything a nasty brown color. The cars and cabs made it a dangerous game just to walk down the street without being assaulted by a wave of ice cold dirt water. Somehow we made it to the designated Albany St. café without getting drenched, though your lower half had caught some passing sprinkles. My crutch made uncomfortable swishing noises through the sludge, and you made sure to keep close to me in case my balance got the better of me.

As we reached the entrance you pulled open the door, ushering me to stumble inside. "A few minutes early, I think."

"No sign of Anne or Lestrade." You noted, following me.

As I started with my jacket, you spotted your table of choice near the back and moved quickly, stripping your coat and scarf as you walked. My crutch squeaked along the floor as I joined you. Only a handful of other guests were there, mostly seated by the windows. You studied them while I stretched my bad leg into a chair, positioning myself where I could see out onto the street.

"I'm not hungry at all, Sherlock, do you want to split?" I grabbed the menu and scanned over it, leaning my crutch against the inside of my seat.

"Split?" You turned around for a second. "Split, split. Yes, I'm alright with splitting. I'm not hungry, either. What about a wrap?" You turned back.

"...Wrap. Sure, if that's what you want." I turned a page. "There's tuna, chicken, ham...?

"I'm in the mood for chicken."

"Chicken it is." I slapped the menu shut and tucked it back into the sleeve, folding my hands over the tabletop and watching the back of your head. You continued to investigate the room, and I sighed. "What in the world are you looking for."

"Anything suspicious." You jumped up and straightened yourself. With a glance at the table, disgust washed over your face, and you began to rearrange the condiments and scrub the surface of the table with a handful of napkins. "Filthy. Who in their right mind would chose this place."

" _You_  chose it."

While you made defensive noises, a burgundy-haired waitress approached the table with an all-too-friendly smile on her face. She looked young enough to be a university student, and smelled like cheap perfume. "Good morning, sirs. Weather's pretty miserable out there, isn't it?" She chuckled as she scattered a few cork coasters on the table. "Is there anything I can get you to start you off? A drink, or an appetizer?"

"I don't think we'll need an appetizer. A drink would be nice, though." I smiled back at her, running my fingers across the edge of the cork. "Coffee, decaf, thanks."

She scribbled it on her pad. "Very good, sir. And for y-"

"I'll have a spray bottle of bleach cleaner," You said, still scrubbing. "A few paper towels while you're at it."

She hesitated. "...Uh, sir?"

You grumbled. "You do this for a living, do I really need to say please?"

"...Well, uh. I'll see what I can do, sir." She disappeared, looking terribly distressed, her eyes flicking quickly between the ground and her notepad.

"You can at least try to be polite," I sighed.

"I'm just doing what the busboy should have done last week. This place is revolting."

I sighed, twirling the coaster between my fingers. "I'm serious, though. I know you're suspicious of Anne, but as far as we know she hasn't done anything wrong. Innocent until proven guilty, remember. I don't want you offending her, or making her uncomfortable."

"But I'm best at those." You shot me a half-mouthed grin, then grabbed the menu aggressively. "Is there anything with tuna here?"

"I thought you said you wanted chicken."

"Well I've changed my mind. The tuna salad looks good. Do you want to split?"

I shrugged and waved my hand through the air. "Whatever you want, Sherlock."

"And just so that you're aware, I do intend on being as subtle as possible. I don't want her catching on to my suspicion just yet."

"There's a very good chance that she could just be an innocent young woman, in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Coincidences are facts. I'll try to be careful if only for George's sake."

"Greg."

"Whatever."

The waitress came back with a mug of coffee a paper towel roll, with a spray bottle tucked under one arm. "Here you are, sirs. And please be careful with that cleaner. We would rather not have any spill."

"It'll be fine." You tore off a few sheets of towel as she handed them to you and gave the bottle trigger a firm squeeze. I curled my nose at the harsh smell of bleach.

The waitress grappled with her words. "...Um, if the table is dirty, I could show you to a-"

"No, no, that's alright, Sherlock's already got it handled." I smiled apologetically and motioned to the menu. "We're ready to order. We'll have the tuna salad, to share..."

"What about the chicken wrap?" You glanced up at me, and we exchanged stares.

"Chicken wrap and tuna salad, then? I'll put those in right away." She jotted down the orders and scurried off before either of us could get in another word.

I sighed and took my cuppa. "Explain yourself."

You went back to scrubbing. "Explain myself what?"

"Why are you so hyperactive today. Long night with Mycroft?" I started to drink my coffee.

"If that's an option, then yes."

"How late did he end up staying, anyway. Mycroft."

"Not late. Ten thirty or so."

"Good grief. What were you two talking about so late?"

"Nothing too important." You gave me one of your obnoxious "bullshit" looks.

I stirred my coffee. "Tell me, I want to know."

A short exhale. "Your health, of course. Why else would Mycroft come to Baker Street? What other 'business' do we have?"

"It was only a question. I didn't think Mycroft would worry too much."

"Well you should think again." You wadded up a few dirty towels. "He fancies you."

" _Fancies_  me?" I snorted. "So this is what it's like to be  _fancied_  by Mycroft Holmes. I thought it would feel a little more regal."

"And since you asked a question, I will too." You folded your arms across the (now polished) table, leaning forward a bit. "You received a letter from your parents two days ago which outlined their unwillingness to accept your homosexual relationship with your flatmate, am I correct?"

I made a face. "Yes. I read it to you, remember? And could you not generalize it."

"Yet your elder sister, Harriet, had also engaged in a homosexual relationship. Was their reaction the same towards her?"

"Well, no." I sipped at my cup.

"Then, explain?"

"It was obvious that they were uncomfortable with the idea, but they kept it mostly to themselves. They attended the wedding, bought them gifts, and the like. Supported them. But regardless, Harry and Clara have been separated for some time now."

You folded your hands under your chin. "But why then, with their second child, would their opinion be so negative?"

"They're probably just more serious about it now. I'd really rather not talk about it."

"Could it be because of the gender of the perpetrator? Female is conditionally less serious, but culturally the man is the leader of the house, the bearer of the family name, the one whose duty it is to marry and to carry on the line..."

"Sherlock."

"Without much extended family the father may be more interested in an heir than-"

" _Sherlock_ , stop. They're here."

The little bell above the door chimed cheerfully as Lestrade and Anne stepped inside, their noses blushed from the cold. Bundled in their coats and layers, their arms intertwined, with the combination of Anne's deep red hair and Greg's large grey scarf, they looked like the textbook holiday pair. They saw us right away and shook the sludge off their boots before braving the tile.

"Quite a day for walking, isn't it?" Greg laughed, letting go of Anne to start on his coat. "You haven't waited long, have you?"

"Not at all." You smiled, discreetly slipping your wad of dirty paper towels under the table.

"John! How nice to see you again." Anne smiled at me, her eyes sparkling as she hugged my shoulders lightly. Her contagious smile spread quickly. "I was so nervous after Mycroft's party, the ambulances and officers. But I'm glad you're feeling better."

"As am I." I motioned for her to sit.

Lestrade slid in beside you, still untying his scarf. "Have you two already ordered?"

"Yeah, just a few minutes ago." I nodded.

"Okay, no problem." He released a long breath and put his elbows on the table. "We had hell getting here, there were no parking spots on the entire block, we had to park all the way on the corner of Robert. It's ridiculous." He shook his head, then turned to me. "But it's good to see you, John. How are you feeling?"

"Been better. But I'm improving." I shook my head a little. "Slowly but surely."

"We're still investigating what the cause might have been for his illness," You hummed.

"Food poisioning, maybe?" Anne asked, reaching for the menu.

"Not quite, but close."

"A crime?" Her eyes flashed. "Do you think he could have been drugged?"

"Now's not the time to be discussing  _crime_ , right, Sherlock?" Lestrade laughed, a bit of nervousness breaking through. He grabbed at the second menu. "Is the shrimp salad any good?"

"I heard the salmon was better," I answered, playing along.

"I don't like salmon all too much. Sherlock, have you-"

"If it's any concern, I would in fact like to be discussing crime," You announced.

"That's not really appropriate for the time, is it?" Greg stammered.

"Perfectly appropriate," You glinted, staring down Anne with a devilish expression that made the two of us shrink back in our seats. A tense silence started its dance across the table.

As the waitress approached from the corner of my eye, it began to dawn on Greg that you had invited the two of them out to investigate his girlfriend and not for a friendly chat. I could identify the small anger starting to flash just behind his irises, building from the quirk of his brow. The waitress took his and Anne's orders with exaggerated heartiness. Anne seemed nervous, but tried her best to cover it up, unfolding her napkin on her lap and setting it on the table just to grab it again a few seconds later and refold it.

Greg turned back to you after the waitress had gone, his jaw set. "So, what is it, Holmes. You think John was drugged? What does that have to do with us?"

"I requested that my brother do a thorough investigation of his kitchen and serving area," You began, "Along with a complete search amongst his cooks and waiting staff, and he disclosed the results of the search to me last night."

"Did he find a lead?"

"No. He found nothing. But that's beside the point. Mycroft owns a large wine-cellar that is installed into the basement of his estate. Ten-digit keypad lock, and obviously he keeps it quite clean, it's impossible for even I to disarm. Inside the wine-cellar are numerous bottles of various kinds, each one carefully stored. There were even records of which wines were requested by which guests. Mycroft really does cover his bases. You, Mrs. Whitefield, requested a type of champagne called  _Lécuyer_. This particular type of champagne has only made an appearance in the last several years, and is already fetching high prices on the market. Mycroft only owned two bottles, and generously opened one for you. A new, un-opened champagne, one no one else had tasted. This is the champagne you offered to John and I. I did not drink my glass, but John did."

"Do you think there was something wrong with the wine?" Anne pursed her lips. " _Lecuyér_  is one of my favorites, I've never ha-"

"I think that you would calculate we would suspect the wine first, that's why you chose to use a bottle that hadn't been opened. It would have bought you time, time to rid yourself of evidence."

"You're not being serious," Greg exclaimed.

"I am being serious, Lestrade." You grinned, folding your hands under your chin. "Tell me, Anne, how did you do it? Did you somehow intercept the wine? Or did you put it into the drink when you handed it to him? Did you try to poison me, too? Or were you focused solely on one victim?"

Anne glanced wide-eyed between Greg and I. "I, uh... Mr. Holmes, I think you're-"

"Here you are, nice and warm for you." The waitress butted right into the conversation, spreading our plates out on the table: the tuna for you, the chicken for me, for Anne a salad, and Greg the ham butty. You looked at me and then down at my food with confusion written in bold letters across your face. I could almost hear your puzzled voice asking if we were supposed to be splitting.

Anne stirred her salad with her fork as your eyes gravitated back toward her.

"I'm afraid you haven't found your criminal, Mr. Holmes. I didn't do anything to John."

"Of course you have. It's just a matter of finding the evidence to prove it."

Anne gave you a sort of apologetic smile. "I haven't done anything to John."

"Hear her very clearly, Sherlock." I said, pulling apart my wrap. "I told you she hadn't done anything."

"Plus, if I did do something, what in the world would I be doing here?" She chuckled, "Sitting down to lunch with a man I was supposed to kill? I don't think they would put that in 'First-Degree Murder 101'."

"Thank you, though, for suspecting my girlfriend of  _poisoning_  your fiancé." Greg growled through a mouthful.

You took a large bite of the tuna salad, chewing as you thought.

"I'm sorry about him, Anne," I apologized.

She laughed. "Oh, it's no problem. I'm sure he's worried about you." She tapped her fork against the rim of her bowl. "Did your doctor give you any clues as to what happened back at the party? A drug or some kind of virus?"

"There are several theories," I answered, clearing my throat. "Right now he's leaning to a more mental cause, against my suggestions."

"So you still think there was a poison involved?"

"Possibly, yes."

"Interesting." She smiled. "Let me know if there's anything I can help you with, alright? As soon as Sherlock gets over the shock of having his theory fall out from under him."

You swallowed. "I was certain it was the wine."

"Maybe it was a  _mental thing_." Greg piped back. "Y'know, like the  _doctor_  said."

"The strong objection against-."

"Y'know what the real problem is here, Sherlock. You're making this all too complicated than it needs to be." He waved his butty at you. "You always want everything to be clever. It's not clever this time, Sherlock."

We finished our meal without another word from you.

* * *

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Next update Sunday


	9. Chapter 9

 

After lunch, we four decided to walk back over to our flat. The melting snow had made the sidewalk slightly slushier since that morning, but nothing too terrible. When we started we were all walking together, but eventually you and Greg ended up deep in conversation several meters ahead, leaving Anne (wearing heels) and I (barely keeping the pace with my crutch) behind. More than once I had to hold Anne to keep her from slipping, and she had slowed to make the walk easier on my leg.

"Today was a bad day to wear these shoes, I guess." She smiled sheepishly, righting herself for what seemed like the hundreth time.

"You're fine. We weren't planning on walking, anyway." I held my arm out for her. "Hold on to me, we'll walk together."

"Are you sure?" She asked, gripping onto my elbow. "Wouldn't want to stir up anything with Sherlock."

I laughed. "Don't worry about him. It's his fault for leaving us back here to fend for ourselves." I motioned to where you and Lestrade were still talking, ignorant of anything nd everything else around you. Anne looped her arm in mine, and we continued on connected.

"Well, thank you, sir. You're awfully sweet." Anne chuckled a little.

"Anytime."

She let out a happy little sigh, then struck up conversation. "So, John, are you and Sherlock going anywhere for Christmas?"

"No, not this year. We're actually going to our friend Anderson's house. Well, when I say friend, I mean... not quite friend. But Sherlock wanted to go. Don't ask me why."

"Oh, Philip Anderson?"

"That's him."

"That's where Greg wanted to go, too. Maybe I'll see you there, then."

"I'd be glad. I don't know many of Sherlock's Scotland Yard friends, besides Greg."

"We're in the same boat then."

"I guess so." I chuckled. "Do you have family in the area?"

"Not really."

"Where's your family, then?"

"Well, ah. My mom's in upper Scotland, and my dad moved to Italy back in '03. They had a nasty divorce, and holidays haven't really been the same since then. I don't see them much."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's no problem. Just a common evil, y'know. What about you? Where's your family?"

"Wales. Just a few minutes outside Cardiff. My older sister lives in Yorkshire, but she's in Germany for the holidays.

"You have an older sister?"

"Yes, I do. Harry. Well, Harriet. She goes by Harry."

"Harry? Not quite a very feminine name, Harry."

"She's not a very feminine person, Harry. Kind of a prat."

"Most sisters are. I have one younger, also a prat."

I laughed. "Let's just be sure they never meet."

Anne nodded, adjusting her arm in mine. "Do you have any other siblings?"

"No, just one. Do you?"

"Yeah, had. My older brother died in a crash in 2001."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It's all fine." She smiled, then glanced up to you and Greg, still chatting obliviously. "What about Sherlock? I mean, I know he has a brother, obviously, but what about his family?"

"Oh, they're angels."

Her face lit up. "Really?"

"Yes, they're wonderful. His mother was a mathematician before having children, and his father is a postman. They live a few hours north, in the country. I only met them once, when they came on holiday. But according to Mrs. Holmes, we're supposed to visit as soon as possible."

"Aw, that's sweet. Though imagine the chaos they had to endure, raising Mycroft and Sherlock in the same home."

"I have no idea how they did it. I can hardly stand ten minutes with the both of them without tearing myself to pieces."

We both chuckled, wavering a little, but looking up and coming closer to the front steps of our flat. You had noticed us and now stood facing our direction, your hands folded behind your back and your brow curved suspiciously. Greg waited in the doorway, a mischievous grin on his face, as if he was anticipating your reaction.

"Thanks for the walk, John." Anne patted my arm and pulled away, stepping quickly onto the doorstep and following her boyfriend into the house.

You stood very still, and I straightened my back a little to face you. "Did you have a good  _talk_ ," You asked.

"Yes, I did. It was very pleasant." I nodded to him and started up the stairs.

Greg made himself at home immediately, flopping down in your armchair with a nonchalant bounce. "Well, it definitely hasn't gotten any  _cleaner_  in here. Just as heartwarming as ever."

"It has charm, though." Anne let her eyes roam around the place, falling on the far wall with a flash of surprise. She reached out to touch the bullet-holes in the wallpaper and glanced questioningly at Greg, who just shrugged. "What is this...?"

"Target practice," You said flatly, shedding your coat and hanging it on the back of your desk chair.

"In the house?" She wrinkled her nose. "On the wall?"

"I'm quite a fine marksman if I do say so myself."

"Oh, yeah, congratulations, you can hit a wall."

You narrowed your eyes, stalking into the kitchen.

I leaned onto my crutch, a little dry for conversation. "...er, do you two want some tea, or coffee, maybe?"

"Coffee sounds good," Anne said, moving to look over the scattered contents of your desk. But just as she bent her head, something glinted past her ear and made her jump back with a yelp, stumbing into your whiteboard. All heads turned to the kitchen, where you stood with your arm frozen post-throw. A moment of silence passed.

"Please take a seat, Ms. Whitefield," You said calmly, "and don't touch any of my belongings."

"Sorry." She sat down across from Greg, wide-eyed.

"Damn, Sherlock, calm down." I glared at you and patted Anne on the shoulder. "Are you alright? He didn't clip you, did he?"

"No, no, I'm fine."

"Such hospitality, huh, Sherlock?" Lestrade said, shifting.

"Not for  _questionable_  people," You retorted.

Anne looked a little miffed.

"Sherlock Holmes." I folded my arms. "Apologize, right now."

"What?"

" _Apologize_. Now. Our guest in no way deserves your rude remarks or... flying utensils."

"That could be debated," You snarked, pulling the fork out of the wall.

" _Sherlock_!" I growled. The heat of the moment was making me a little dizzy, so I put a hand on the end-table.

" _My apologies_ , Anne - if that even is your name - I seem to have some difficulty controlling my actions around individuals I find particularly suspicious."

Lestrade growled. "Sherlock, stop. You're just stirring up-."

"Trouble, yes, just as Ms. Anne has been doing, ever since she introduced herself to John and I. Don't you see it in her eyes? For the love of God, your little minds-"

" _John_ , Sherlock, you'e stirring up  _John_." Greg shouted, moving toward me just a few seconds too late.

I lost my balance, falling into the end-table and knocking over the lamp, broken pieces scattering along the floor. The room swam as I desperately tried to control my breathing, squeezing my eyes closed and shutting you and your stupid arguments out. I felt your hand on my head and faintly recalled hearing your voice, but it might have been Lestrade's. When I opened my eyes again, yours were close to mine, and you were speaking to me, quite loudly it seemed.

"M'fine, m'fine," I breathed, putting a hand on my chest. "Oh, God, the lamp."

"Never-mind the lamp, are you  _alright_?" You scanned across my face, across my chest. Looking for a problem.

"Yes, Sherlock." My lungs still felt tight, so I closed my eyes again and kept pacing my breaths until they loosened.

Greg's voice. "Jesus Christ, John. You're not getting better, are you?"

Your hands disappeared. My eyes focused just as you approached him.

"This is not something that the hospital or Mycroft needs to hear about," You hissed. "Am I understood?"

"If John isn't healthy, he needs  _treatment_ , Sherlock." Greg's hands tightened into fists. "He needs help."

"Maybe you need to leave."

"I'm not going to let you keep him here if you're not being-"

"Stop it, both of you," I half-shouted, as soon as I could catch my breath. "Just, please, stop."

Greg met my eyes, his flash of anger melting into soft pity. His tight jaw unhinged and his fingers relaxed, cupping delicately around Anne's shoulder.

"Maybe Sherlock is right. We should leave. John needs his rest." He stepped forward to help me up, rubbing my back reassuredly before looking back at you. "Get him some water. And get him biscuits or something to eat, too."

"Don't-"

" _Now_ , Sherlock."

You shot him a glare, then disappeared into the kitchen as I sank down in my chair.

Greg set his hands firmly on my shoulders. "John, look. If you need anything - anything at all - just give me a ring. Alright? I'll be over in five minutes flat. Anything. Hear me?"

"Thank you, Greg." I smiled at him, and he gave me a quick hug. Anne followed quickly behind to embrace me and graze her lips against my ear, running her hand along my arm.

"I'll see you on Christmas, alright?" She smiled. "It was nice talking to you."

Lestrade guided her to the hall, casting one last glance in my direction with an affirmative nod before closing the door behind himself.

As soon as it closed, you rushed to my attention, rolling up my sleeves to check for any cuts. "Are you alright? No wounds? How are you feeling? Lightheaded? Nauseous? Is there pain in your chest or abdomen? Tell me, John, quickly."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. My lungs are just tight." I took a deep breath.

"Good." You knelt and rolled up the cuffs of my trousers. "No wounds here either?"

"No, Sherlock, I'm fine."

"You're ingenious, John. Simply ingenious." You made a short kind of giggling sound.

" _Ingenious_? What do you mean, ingenious?"

"My theory was correct, after all. Anne is our culprit, I'm telling you. She's up to no good."

"Sherlock..." I rubbed my forehead, feeling woozy again. "She's already told you  _point-blank_  that she hasn't done anything to me. She's completely trustworthy, both me and Lestrade think so, and I'm sure if you ask Sally or Anderson they'd say the s-"

"But they're all so easily deceived, John, don't you see it now? Ah, but I knew it, I knew I couldn't be fooled. She almost had me, but not quite. Not  _quite_. I'm having much more fun with her than I have in quite a while, it's spectacular."

"What are you going on about now, Sherlock."

"I have evidence, John!"

"What evidence!"

You grabbed the sides of my head and held it towards yours, your expression close to ecstatic. " _Spontaneous reaction_ ," You exclaimed.

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	10. Chapter 10

This chapter is a little longer than the average but there was a lot of stuff I wanted to include so I apologize in advance. That dog tho.

Thanks for all the reviews you guys make my life.

Enjoy the next chapter.

* * *

Nightmares came violent and merciless. Blood and war flashed in spurts across my eyes, then vanished. Friends I had lost in Afghanistan. Soldiers whose sceams I endured as they were tormented by the blade, by my needle. The cold, twisted faces of the men and women we couldn't save. Howls of pain, hysteric shrieks, hands grabbing for a missing limb. Men driven insane by the pain.

Then there were visions of you knitted in-between, behind me, beside me. You, running for water, running for bandages. You, ducking below bombs, dodging bullets.

You, laying submerged in our bath, you head crooked to the side.

Maggots. Maggots were everywhere. Corpses were piled on top of each other, riddled with disease, drowned in smoke and fire. Screams echoed from within, hopeless cries buried beneath sweat, caged within sheets of bone.

You turned toward me, your dark curls dripping. As you parted your lips, maggots sprouted, and your skin pulled away like parchment over an open flame.

* * *

I woke in a cold sweat, my head and my heart pounding as I bolted upright. The dark room shoved its way behind my eyes again. I a small wimper slip out as I caught my breath, curling my legs against my chest.

"Breathe, John..." I whispered softly. "They're just dreams. They're just dreams."

You turned over a little, but didn't stir. The trembling began to fade, and I checked the time. Three A.M., too early to wake. I cursed under my breath and took a sip of water from the glass on my bed-table. Might as well try to get back to sleep, I figured.

I laid down beside you, on my side, facing the clock, but not feeling secure enough to close my eyes just yet. I just watched as the little blue numbers flickered on the table.

Then, something creaked.

Our flat might've been well-aged, but I had learned to recognize the difference between a weather-sound and a person-sound. That was not a weather-sound. Mrs. Hudson was on holiday. You were still in bed. I searched under the blanket for your arm just to be sure, but as my fingers brushed across your skin, I felt even more unsettled.

For a moment I froze, straining my ears for another sound. Maybe I had just imagined it. Maybe I wasn't as good at determining weather-creaks as I thought I was.

Another creak.

My mind snapped into focus. Careful not to upset the bed, I slipped open the bed-side drawer and reached for my pistol. I didn't know which part of the floor would creak and which part wouldn't, but as I set my feet down it was as silent as I'd wanted. The gun held close to my jaw, I waited, straining my ears to hear any rustle of movement in the other room.

After hearing only silence, I stepped into the hall, moving quickly through the doorway to avoid the swing of the door. The only light in the room came from the streetlights of the street out front, and it didn't reach far. I adjusted my grip on the pistol, blood pounding in my ears as I headed toward the kitchen. I couldn't see anyone, but all my senses were spewing out red flags, and goosebumps climbed up my arms.

But I realized that the goosebumps weren't only from fear. A cold breeze had entered the house through the kitchen window, left ajar with curtains fluttering. I kept the gun at my ear as I turned into the main room, still listening closely for any other creaks or groans.

The sharp sound of a car door slamming made me jump. I hurried to the window, to look, careful not to make the gun visible throught the glass. A black car sped off, spewing snow and sleet behind it. I couldn't tell where exactly it had stopped, but I peered at it carefully as it turned the corner, my eyes still too clouded with sleep for me to read the liscence plate.

Suddenly, a rustle came from behind and I turned, gun raised, heart leaping.

"What the  _bloody hell_  are you doing up?"

You grappled at the wall and flipped the lightswitch, the light nearly blinding me at first. You were quite a sight, with your unruly bed-hair and bathrobe only halfway on. There was a jar of knuckle bones clenched in your hand which you might have been considering to use as a weapon. I lowered the pistol.

"I heard someone," I said, my shoulders still shaking a little. "Someone was in the flat."

"A burglar? Was anything taken?" You set the jar down.

"Well, the tele's still there. I might've interrupted him." I jogged over to the window, investigating the sill and the locks. "Did you leave this open?"

"Obviously not." You looked over our desks. "All our electronics are still here. Are you sure you heard someone?"

"I'm sure. He must've come through the window. See, there's snow on the sill." I hugged my arms around myself, and you came over to see. "There was a car that just sped past, too. A black one. I know I heard it."

You knelt over and sniffed the window, then pushed it closed. "Strange. Very strange."

I ran my hand through my hair. "Why would someone be in our flat, Sherlock?"

"Are you sure there was someone here? You have been under quite a bit of-"

" _I heard him_ , Sherlock. In our flat. In our kitchen. I swear I did."

"You've been having a lot of nightmares recently. Haven't been sleeping well."

"I  _wasn't_  imagining it!"

"Let's just get back to sleep, John. We'll figure this out in the morning." You yawned. "I don't have the patience for this."

My eyes fell. I knew I had heard something, and it wasn't me who opened that window. Nonetheless, it was late, you were tired, and you were right; I needed sleep. I followed you back into the hall, and as I passed, you gently slipped the pistol from my hand.

* * *

As soon as it was light, I was up, dressed, and examining the kitchen window. I was no Sherlock Holmes, but if I tried I was an acceptable form of investigator myself. I mostly just looked at the lock and the interior grooves. "Y'know, for a detective, your house is really under par in terms of security," I mentioned, glancing back at you.

You shrugged, busy with one of your experiments. "I figured my senses were security enough."

"That might not be true anymore." I grunted and stood up, stretching out my leg. "We should look into an alarm system. Even if it's just a simple one. We don't want another break-in."

"It was hardly a break-in," You countered. "Nothing was taken. I never heard anything out of the ordinary, besides you trotting around with that pistol of yours. Tea or coffee?"

"I  _know_  someone was here, Sherlock. Who else would've opened the window!"

"I could have deleted it. It's coincidence, not evidence. Tea or coffee?"

"But I was sure!"

" _Tea or coffee_?"

" _Tea_!"

You nodded, and filled the kettle with water from the tap. "I'll talk to Lestrade about security. But don't make a big deal about last night. You were having nightmares, you were sleep-deprived. It's understandable."

I huffed, falling into a chair. "Whatever, Sherlock. As long as you-" I glanced up, my eye catching the corner of the cabinet farthest to the right. "Did you forget to close the latch again?"

"Hmm?" You glanced at the cabinet. "Oh, I must have."

The cabinet in question was the one which held both Mrs. Hudson's more valuable glass and china and our in-home medical supplies. In all the years we'd lived with Mrs. Hudson, we'd used the china three times. Twice for holiday dinners, and once when you dined with one of your "clients" (who turned out to be a sociopathic serial killer some time later). The upper shelf had the med bag. A few months earlier, you had broken the hinges of the shelf so that it wouldn't stay shut, so I made a make-shift latch on the inside that kept it closed. You and I knew how to set the latch. But a burglar would not realize his mistake.

While I pondered this, your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. "What is this, John?" You squinted your eyes, looking carefully at a sheet of paper you had found on the counter beside you. "A letter from your therapist?"

I looked up. "Oh, no, that's a list she gave me. Stuff to help relax and whatnot."

"Hn." You turned the page around. "Why is this part underlined. 'If symptoms are prolonged, an option to look into would be to purchase a small animal, such as a cat or small dog. They're great for companionship and will give you something to focus on, or talk to if necessary.' "

"That pretty much sums it up, yeah."

"You want a cat?"

"I didn't think it was an awful idea."

"I can't stand cats. A dog would be much more reasonable." You hummed.

"...Alright, a dog, then."

You stared at the page for another few seconds, then slapped it down with a force that made me jump.

"Yes, I like that idea. Why hadn't I thought of that. A dog. That would solve both our problems."

"Both?"

"Increased health and  _relaxation_  for you, along with an extra layer of security for the house."

I nodded. "Well, when you put it that way, yeah, that sounds like a great idea."

"Good. Then we'll go as soon as this pot is finished."

"That fast?"

"Of course. Why waste time when we don't have to." You winked and disappeared into the bedroom to change.

* * *

The nearest dog pound was a small, damp thing that smelled like coffee and urine. The employees were all overweight and looked at us with narrow eyes, angrily demanding ID and that I leave my gun behind the desk. Evidently you knew the overhead; as you explained in the car, you had helped him settle a problem he was having with some French delegates. Why French delegates would have problems with a balding pound manager, you left that to the imagination.

But the man was kind, and let us go in to see the dogs without any question. He even offered to half the price, just for us, throwing in a bag of dog food for free for whichever breed we chose. You mostly zoned him out, but I tried to be as receptive as possible, even though I could hardly understand him through his heavy Middle Eastern accent.

We walked in to see the dogs, and were immediately greeted by  _all_  of them. The cages held large dogs on the left and small dogs on the right. Obviously our flat wouldn't accomodate a fully-grown Marmaduke or German Shepherd, as  _friendly_  as they appeared, so I gravitated closer to the cage with the smaller dogs.

"It has to be hypoallergenic," I mentioned, nearly shouting so that I was heard above the noise. "I'd rather not be vacuuming every day. Short-haired or non-shedding, maybe?"

"There are plenty of those," You answered. "Terriers, Shih Tsus, Bichon Frise, a toy poodle, maybe."

"I don't want some girly dog. We need a..." I waved my hand through the air. " _Handsome_  dog."

"Handsome, eh?" The manager laughed, his belly lurching. He walked up to the wall of cages and unlocked one of them. "Sounds like you boys are looking for a Basenji. Luckily I've got a young one right here for you. Red coat, two years. Pretty good shape, too."

A brown dog nipped at his fingers, and he picked him up.

"These little are smart for their size," He said, petting the dog's coat. "Great hunters, if you train 'em. Don't bark, either, only yowl. They'd be great for a flat."

"Sounds perfect. Hey there, boy." I smiled at the dog and it wagged its tail, sniffing my hand.

"Is this one vaccinated?" You asked, stepping toward it.

"Not sure. Didn't have any tags on him. You'd have to get them renewed, at least." The manager smiled, looking between us. "You said you wanted a guard dog, did you?"

"Well, sort of," I answered. "We had a bit of a...eh..."

"Incident." You said, sharly. "There was an incident on our block. Thought we'd use the excuse to take extra precautions. But it's also just a pet. Not only a guard dog, also a companion. Thing. Pet."

"Excellent." He laughed. "I'll let you boys know, if you get a pup, you can have it trained real easy to identify threats and such. I know you've got some dangerous business around, Sherlock, and a Basenji can do you a lot of good on your cases, too. Younger they are, easier it'll be, and more handy it'll make them."

"So we should look for a breeder?" I asked.

"That's what I'd prefer." He put the dog back in its cage. "I know a guy over in Greenwich, just got himself a pretty little litter. If you boys want, I can give you his information, and you can take a look?"

"Yes, thank you." You nodded, and the man sauntered off with a wide grin on his face.

I sighed, covering my nose with my sleeve. "Damn awful stench in here. It's giving me a headache."

You nodded absentmindedly, wrapping your coat close against yourself. I watched you for a few seconds, then shuffled on my feet.

"It was a burglary, by the way." I said. "Not an incident."

"Burglary implies that items were stolen or tampered with," You argued. "Nothing was. It was an incident. A peculiar set of coincidences."

"Burglary." I replied. "There was someone in our flat, Sherlock. Don't you understand that?" You didn't say anything, so I continued. "It's getting really annoying, this whole thing when I say something and you completely disregard it."

"I'm not disregarding it."

I snorted. "Maybe  _ignoring_  it is the right way to put it. What would you call this, then, Sherlock?"

"I'd call it a deliberate reorganization of interest."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock."

"No, John." You turned to look at me very seriously. "You've been too stressed lately. Your nightmares are escalating; I've noticed it too. Your medication hasn't yet had any positive influence, and you're still suffering the side-effects, which in some cases may include paranoia and moderate to severe hallucinations, along with memory problems and trouble focusing. The last thing you need is another thing to get upset about. Don't worry about it, I'll handle it. You slow down. You relax. Just, don't get worked up over this."

I blinked, surprised with your sudden burst of honesty. You quickly turned away to follow the hall, and I didn't stop you.

* * *

Our next stop was in Greenwich. The breeder we were referred to, named Brent, had a history training scent-dogs for various sports, including hunting. He specialized in Basenjis, and had a litter of purebred puppies ready for adoption. He had been updated by the pound manager on our interest, and had a plethora of things to tell us about from the moment we walked through the door. You stood by to take everything in, while I bent down to see the dogs.

There were seven of them in all, with pretty red coats and almond brown eyes. They whimpered and pounced on my legs as I sat down, licking playfully at my arms. After a few minutes of trampling paws, they dissipated as if I had turned invisible. One curled up beside my knee and took a nap, and another was busy chewing my shoelace.

I sighed and set my arms on my knees. I felt somewhat like a boy, sitting with all the little dogs. You watched from the edge of the room with lazy interest.

The puppy at my foot yanked and pulled at the lace with all its might. I picked it up and held it out, looking over it. Its curly tail trembled as it whimpered at me, sticking out its tongue to lick my hand.

"Hey, boy." I smiled at him, then put him in my lap.

"Did you decide?" You asked, squatting down beside me.

"This one's playful." I set the dog back on his feet, and he trotted over to you, sniffing your shoes and the hem of your trousers.

"That's good. I won't have for an indolent mutt." You picked him up to take a look, and he promptly pissed all over your shirt, brushing a shout out of you.

I grinned, taking him before you could throw him. "Looks like he's already proven himself."

* * *

"What about Gladstone. Like the park."

I kept the dog in my lap as we rode the cab back to Baker Street. You made a face, turning to me with a mock kind of annoyance.

"What kind of name is that?  _Gladstone_?"

"My cat's name was Gladstone, when I was small. Birthday present. Little tabby cat." I petted the dog's head, and he panted at me. "He looks like a tabby kind of dog, with his red coat. I like the name Gladstone."

"Please, at least try to pick something reasonably common."

"Oh, alright,  _Sherlock_."

You frowned.

"We got him for me, so I should get to name him whatever I choose. I like the name Gladstone." The dog nipped my hand, and I smiled at him. "Gladdie. That'll be his name. Short for Gladstone."

"Gladdie. Ironic."

"What?"

"I can settle for Gladdie."

"Good. He'll be Gladdie." I scratched his ears. "Tomorrow I'll go out and buy him a bed, and a collar. Thankfully we've already got food, we don't have to worry about that. Mrs. Hudson will love him, I'm sure. She's always telling me how much sh-"

"Do you see the black car turning the corner." You interrupted, staring ahead. I furrowed my eyebrows and turned to look.

"Yes, I see it. What about it?"

"Is that the same car you recall seeing drive away from our house?"

"...No. Different model." I glanced at you. "Why?"

"The car has been following us the last several streets." You leaned foward, toward the cabbie. "Take a right here, use the longer route instead."

You settled back as the cabbie changed directions. The car you had pointed out turned with us.

* * *

Gonna take her for a review on a big jet plane.

Next part up Sunday.


	11. Chapter 11

 

"Sherlock? What should we do, then?" I clutched the dog a little tighter, resisting the urge to glance back again. You drummed your fingers against the door of the cab, eyes flashing with thought. Reaching into your pocket, you grabbed your mobile phone and put the opposite hand firmly on my leg.

"Sit still. I'll have to make sure it isn't one of Mycroft's people." You began to tap it out as you spoke. "We'll just have to get in as normal. Behave as oblivious as possible."

Your phone bliped with Mycroft's reply within a few seconds, and I glanced over your shoulder to read.

 _Black Cadillac. 2008. Yours?_  - SH

 _I haven't sent anyone_. - MH

"So if it isn't Mycroft, who is it?" I turned my head.

"Not sure. Still thinking." You squeezed gently on my leg, though I wasn't sure if it was deliberate or subconscious. The cab turned onto Baker Street.

As we pulled to a stop, I cradled the dog in the loop of my arm and patted his head. You nodded to me and pushed out the door, turning to pay the cabbie while I drifted toward the door. I wanted to wait to make sure you were behind me before unlocking the door. Both of us tried to ignore the Cadillac as it rolled past, but I still felt an uncomfortable prick on the back of my neck, and your shadow seemed protectively bent over me.

We stepped into the flat, and the dog wriggled to get out of my arms. I set him down on the step, and he sniffed it, confused. "It's a staircase. You go up them." I straightened my back and smiled, momentarily forgetting about danger. "Aw, look at him. He can't even climb stairs."

"It doesn't make sense..." You murmured, shedding your coat. "Why would someone follow us?"

"I can't wait until Mrs. Hudson gets to meet him, she'll be so excited, don't you think." I picked Gladdie up and started up the stairs.

"Would you please pay attention, John, I'm trying to talk to you." You frowned, looking back at your phone.

 _Have you gotten yourself into trouble, again?_  - MH

"Don't get short with me, Sherlock. Let's get into the house before you start making deductions." I huffed, going up.

"There's no connections, John!" You started making wide hand motions, starting up the stairs behind me. "First there was the dinner party. I'm entertaining the possibility that there  _could_  have been a degree of foul play for the sake of suspicion. Secondly there was the burglary. I'm also entertaining that possibility. And now there's a mysterious car. If all these three things were somehow connected, we would have a case. But there's nothing evident that connects them. All of them are vague, and all of them are possibilities."

"So, what?"

"The reality of the case rests on the first pillar. The first point of suspicion." You clenched your fist and held it in front of you. "The panic attack."

"Do we have to call it a  _panic attack_?" I sighed, setting Gladdie down in the sitting room. "It carries too much baggage."

"If there was foul-play involved, it's clear that we have a case. But if there was no foul-play, we do not. I suspected foul-play in the beginning, but upon investigating further I was convinced that there were no influences. If it were true, if there  _were_  influences, then I would need to return to that first moment of suspicion, because that suspicion was  _right_. The burglary was  _right_ , the shadow-car was  _right_. And if there was no foul-play, there would be nothing to worry about, because my suspicion had been misplaced the entire time."

"You've solved it, then?" I asked, shrinking into my chair.

"No." You continued to pace. "I need to investigate more. That  _first_  incident. Mycroft's study. Anne Worchester. The drink. The surroundings."

"Whitefield." I clarified. "Her name is Whitefield."

"Whitefield, Horseshire, it doesn't matter. She gave you champagne, the only circumstance in which you ingested something that I did not, and shortly thereafter you suffered your first panic attack."

"Isn't there anything else you can say besides ' _panic attack_ '?" I asked, miffed.

"There's no other word to describe it. Think of the symptoms. Increased heart rate, tightening of the chest and lungs, intense fear, severe incoordination, and illusioned asphyxia which consequently leads to-"

" _Illusioned_?"

"Yes. Your brain cannot properly function with its increased mental stress, and projects the threat into a false sense of strangulation or suffocation. In mild cases its symptoms are lightheadedness, dizziness, or loss of coordination. In severe cases, however, it can cause hyperventilation and unconsciousness. Asphyxia."

"Asphyxia. That's quite a word." I rubbed Gladdie's back.

"Yes. From the Greek. ' _Stopping of the pulse_.' " You pulled out your phone again and glared at it.

 _Do you need another trampoline?_  - MH

"What did he say?" I asked.

"Mycroft didn't send a car. Now he seems like he's suspicious, too." You grunted and tossed the mobile onto your desk, stalking into the kitchen. "I need to make a web. John, put your dog away. Don't bother me. Don't make noise."

I sighed and scooped up Gladdie, wandering back into the bedroom. "Nice to know you're finally giving my opinion some thought, after all," I commented, but you had already become totally ignorant of my presence.

* * *

It was eleven o'clock before you finally exhausted the possibilities of your web, closed down your computer, and wandered back into the bedroom. I was sprawled out on the covers of our bed with Gladdie in front of me, pawing at my face with his tongue lapping out every time he yawned. His brown eyes sparkled when he saw you, and curled up in the crook of my arm.

"He's perfect, Sherlock." I said, looking up at you. "I don't know why we never thought earlier to buy a dog."

"We both have trust issues and a lack of long-term stability," You quirked back.

I pursed my lips.

"I mean, I don't know, John, isn't it funny." You made a sorry attempt at a smile.

"Arse." I turned over.

You smirked and pulled off your shirt, tossing it into the laundry hamper while you fished for your sleepers. I grabbed Gladstone and carried him into the bathroom, where I had constructed a make-shift dog bed composed of a cardboard box and a few spare sheets from my upstairs bedroom. As I stooped down to situate him, I heard you come in behind me.

"I made this little bed for him, he can sleep here until we get him a bed. There's a store a few blocks away, maybe tomorrow I could walk down and get him one. Oh, and a leash and collar."

"Not alone. I don't want you going anywhere by yourself until I've figured out this problem." You bent over the sink.

"I'm not even going to bother arguing," I grunted.

"Good. You're finally learning."

I glared at your back. "Does that mean you haven't decided about the case?"

"Yes, it does." You ran your wet hands through your hair and across your face. "I'll need to talk with Mycroft and Lestrade again. I'm not letting that Anne character out of my sight, either. This all seems too strange for coincidence." You reached for a towel and patted yourself dry. "Have you taken your medication?"

"Yeah, I took it." I stretched my leg out, watching you.

"Good." You turned, the towel hanging off your forearm, and met my eyes. The corners of your mouth turned up slightly, and I felt your gaze roam. "Hello."

"Hey." I ran my tongue along the inside of my teeth. A small grin grew across your face, and you stepped forward to put your hand on the back of my neck and press your lips against mine. I gently brushed against your bare stomach, my fingers tinging with your skin. Then, just as quickly as you came, you stepped back and went into the bedroom.

"I want you to schedule another appointment with your doctor - you need more blood tests, ones that I can use to compare to the former ones. Your medication is almost finished, too, you'll need to get that refilled."

" _Not_  refilled. I don't need it." I sat down on the bed and pulled my legs up. "I'll see if I can get a slot next weekend."

"No, I want it as soon as possible."

"Sherlock, do you realize what the date is."

You glanced at me, confused. "What?"

"It's the twenty-third. Of December? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Most people will be on holiday. I don't even know if my doctor will be in." I stretched out. "But I'll call in."

You looked over me. "You're not going to sleep, are you?"

"Of course I am. Look at the time."

"Still seems early to me." You left the towel on the dresser and sat down beside my feet.

I shifted. "We're not shagging, Sherlock."

"I bought you a dog."

"That doesn't matter!"

We heard a little yowl come up from the bathroom.

"Seems like  _Gladdie_  disagrees," You chuckled, leaning forward and placing a hand close to my waist. Gently you smoothed my hair back and brushed your lips against mine, a small wave of pleasure making its way down my spine as your fingers caressed my cheek. As our bodies inched closer, however, a pang of fear settled in the pit of my stomach, and I put a hand on your chest to keep you back.

"Wait, Sherlock." I swallowed. "I'm not sure. What if it happens again."

"Just tell me to stop. I won't push you," You purred, trailing your lips to my jawline. I relaxed a little, allowing your hands to slide to my hips, your thumbs slipping beneath the waist my my trousers. My breath caught. Lust thundered in my ears, but the uneasiness was still there, just like it had been before. I wasn't going to risk it again. I pressed both hands against your chest and pushed, and you sat up straight.

"I'm sorry, I just... I can't." I wrapped my hands in the blankets. "I can't."

You drummed your fingers across the bedsheets, disappointment spelled across your face. But with a defeated sigh you stood, flipped the lights off, and walked around to your side of the bed. "It's alright. Your health first."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Don't apologize." You crawled into bed, pulling up the blanket.

I sighed, feeling both embarassed and dejected. It was one thing to be tired during the day, but I felt a sort of responsibility to you sexually, as if it was my obligation to satisfy you, and that being unable to do that, I felt horribly worthless. But as I laid down, you reached out to pull me closer to you, pulling the blankets up around my shoulders and nestling my head on your chest.

"Goodnight, John." You whispered, kissing my head.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." I whispered back.

The dog yowled from inside the bathroom, and you yelled back at it to shut up.

"So much for a  _relaxing_  end to the night," I muttered, as Gladdie continued to whimper.

"I have a feeling that I'll regret buying this dog very quickly."

I chuckled and wrapped my arms around you, pressing my nose against the hollow of your neck.

* * *

It's going down, I'm yelling reviews

Next update Thursday


	12. Chapter 12

 

I was cooking eggs for breakfast when you slumped in with the paper, slapping it down and planting yourself into a kitchen chair with all the energy of a door-hinge. "I thought Basenjis were supposed to be  _barkless dogs_ ," You snarled, tilting your head to shout down at the pup underneath the table, idly sniffing your trouser cuffs. " _Endless howling_  definitely counts as  _barking_ , especially if it's in the  _middle of the night_. Isn't that right,  _Gladstone_."

The dog wagged his tail, enjoying the extra attention.

"He's just getting used to the new house," I said. "He'll stop as time goes by."

"He had better stop  _now_ , or we're going to have some problems." You grumbled, unfolding the paper. "How am I supposed to sleep when there's a damn  _siren_  living in a box in my bathroom. I have cases to finish."

"Speaking of cases, you haven't seen many new clients lately, have you?" I transferred the eggs from the stove. "You've just been helping Greg."

"Yes. I put up a message on your blog that we wouldn't be seeing any new ones until further notice."

"...You did? But I changed my password."

"Passwords are hardly any trouble for me, John, I thought you knew that already."

"Is there no such thing as privacy?" I scowled, one of the plates in front of you. As I took a seat, I tapped the handle of my fork against the table to get your attention. "Put the paper away, Sherlock, and let's eat."

"Not hungry." You snuffed.

I folded my arms across the table and cleared my throat. You folded the upper half of the paper down to glare at me.

"I'm not in the mood for your little arguments this morning, John."

"Eat."

"And I assume if I don't eat, you won't either?"

"You've assumed correctly."

You grumbled, but set the paper down anyway and picked up your fork. "You could be less difficult, you know."

"And you could eat your own meals, you know." I took a bite.

"I do eat," You defended. "I just prefer not to make a regular habit of it."

"That's the problem." I swallowed and reached for my pill-bottle, which I had left out for this morning. Before opening, I rattled it. "There's only have a few doses left," I mentioned, shaking two of the little tablets into my palm.

"Schedule an appointment," You said through a mouthful of egg.

"I think I'll put it off as much as I possibly can," I countered, tossing them into my mouth.

"There we have it. You avoiding doctor's appointments, and I putting off meals."

"But you  _need_  to eat, that isn't optional. Doctor's visits are optional."

"They are both necessary, however."

I frowned, then took another bite.

"But in any case, here I am, eating. And you can call tonight." You tore off a chunk of egg and tossed it below the table.

"Fine, if you want me to."

"I want you to." You opened up the paper again and laid it out beside your plate. "I've been thinking about how to get in contact with our shadow car."

"Oh? Have you decided on anything?" I studied my plate with a disheartening lack of appetite.

"I have, but it involves several cabs and a fantastic amount of cabbage soup."

"I would rather not spend a fortune on cabbages, if possible." I stood up and took my plate to the sink.

"I'll keep thinking."

"Why don't you think while we walk to the pet store. There's one on Carter Street, just a few minutes' walk away. We need to buy Gladstone a collar and leash, and maybe a bed, too."

"Go yourself, I'm busy." You slurred, scanning over the paper.

"Are you joking?" I shifted my weight off my bad leg. "You're the one one who said I shouldn't go alone."

"The both of us going together would look suspicious."

" _Suspicious_?" I laughed, shaking my head as I walked to get my shoes. "Sod this, Sherlock,  _fine_ , I'll go by myself. Wouldn't want a couple walking together, it looks too  _suspicious_."

"Take your dog, too. I can't promise I won't skin him if you leave him here."

I grunted, sitting down in my armchair and hunching over (with some difficulty) to tie my shoes. "Oh, by the way, don't forget about the party tomorrow. Don't get carried away with cases or anything. You  _are_  going."

"There's a party?"

"Yes. Anderson's Christmas dinner. Remember? The holidays?"

"It hadn't crossed my mind."

I sighed and went back into the kitchen for my pocketbook. "I'll be back."

"Keep your phone on you," You called, not bothering to glance up.

"Yeah, yeah, sure." I huffed, stooping down to pick up Gladdie, and headed out the door, taking my crutch as I passed.

* * *

The snow was still lingering on the streets, encouraged by the frigid December winds and dark overcast. My feet were swimming in all the slush and grime of the city in winter, the salt turning everything a nasty brown color. Gladdie, however, never noticed. He trotted proudly with his new red collar secured around his neck, the loop of his leash wrapped around my wrist. He was such an excited little thing, pouncing around like a cougar, stopping to sniff every blade of grass he passed by. I had to half-drag him most of the way back to Baker Street, but his size and innocent curiosity made it alright.

All of the walking was making my leg start to burn, though, and I wanted badly to get home and stretch it out, let it rest. I blamed the reoccurrance of the limp on my stress, but I was sure that the way I kept using it and pushing it wasn't exactly helping, either. I had grown more and more fatigued with each passing day, and sleep was becoming less and less helpful. The last time I had been on the medication my symptoms were not nearly as bad as they were now.

There was a small tug on the leash. "Keep up, Gladstone," I groaned, getting a little tired of him.

As I turned to glance back, I noticed the man. He stepped out from a café about a quarter mile back, his long black coat reaching to his ankles. His hat heavily shadowed his eyes, and a long pipe thrust out from beneath it, a small cloud billowing from his nostrils. He noticed me, as well, and turned on his heel toward me, beginning a steady pace.

My first thought was that he was one of Mycroft's people. He definitely had that look about him. But after seeing the shadow-car, I wasn't going to wait for him to catch up with me to ask. I hurried the dog along and kept moving toward the flat, hoping that he would disappear when I forgot about him, simply a stranger who chose to wear a dark coat on the wrong day.

Gladdie either thought it was a game or sensed that something was wrong, because he kept up with me, running and jumping and making short snuffling noises. I led him further down the street, glancing back momentarily to see if the man was there. He was. His pace had picked up as well. I panicked, momentarily.

But I tried to calm myself down and think of what you would do if it were you in this situation. I wasn't too far from Baker Street, but still far enough to be out of earshot. I thought about sending you a text, but would that look suspicious? I didn't want to look suspicious. I didn't want to make myself a target any more than I already had, a man with nothing but crutch and a pup, stumbling along a partially-deserted street. I cursed at myself for disregarding my pistol.

I hopped on down the walkway, keeping my pace brisk but not obviously so. The dog kept with me, zig-zagging down the path before me. As my heart rate sped up, the pain in my leg started to fade, and I sped up.

On a whim I took a detour, a short-cut to try to lose the man. I jogged through the crosswalk and ducked down a short alley, careful not to put myself off the street for too long. Gladdie panted like it was an adventure. As I turned the corner to Baker Street, I checked behind again to be sure no one had pursued me, and ran squarely headlong into another passerby.

"Oh, excuse m-" I froze, glancing up at the man, whose small eyes glistened at me from beneath the rim of his hat.

"Dr. Watson?" He took his pipe out from between his teeth, a small smile curling his lip. I took a step in retreat, but stopped when another man about the same size as the first approached from behind me. Gladstone sniffed at the hem of his trousers and snarled.

"I'm sorry about him, I'll just..." I knelt down and scooped up Gladdie, giving him an apologetic smile as I pulled him against my chest. "He's a spunky one."

I bolted, shooting off toward 221B faster than I could breathe, the dog pulled tight against my chest, my crutch forgotten. The men came after me, their heavy coats and lumbering frames giving me an advantage, but only a small one. I shrieked your name as I rushed at the door, yanking it open and nearly dropping Gladstone in the process, but the two men were at my heels, and I felt a hand graze past my neck as I slipped through the door.

Gladstone was howling hysterically, kicking at my arms, and I threw him to the floor to grab the closest thing to me: a spare crutch hanging from the coat-rack. I swung, catching one of the burglars in the side of the head and knocking him into the wall, toppling the rack. I kept screaming for you, backing up against the stairs as the second man approached, his teeth gritted and fist clenched around a small pocket-knife. I held the crutch out to keep him back, but he only smirked and lunged, grabbing the end and ripping it from my hand.

Fear rocketed through my veins and I turned, clinging desperately to the stairs, but I didn't make it far. The man seized my foot and twisted, jerking me backward. I couldn't catch myself in time. My head slammed into the corner of the stair, light scattering in all directions.

* * *

Blue jeans, white shirt, walked into the room you know you made me review.

Next update Sunday.


	13. Chapter 13

 

"Why don't you tell me what I want to know. It'll make this much easier on you, you know." Your voice wavered into the back of my mind, chilly and low.

An unfamilliar man answered. "You don't scare me, Holmes." He was breathing hard, but remained steady, his slow exhales laced with sweat and faint cologne. In a flash of shadow and color, you connected with the side of his face, and he responded with a hiss.

"That can be corrected," You growl.

He grew quiet, and took in a deep breath. "If you want to kill me, or torture me, be my guest. But you're wasting your time."

The corner of an ice pack bit into my forehead, throbbing and swollen with pain. I tried to open my eyes, but the light stung, and large ovals wobbled in and out of my vision. Reds and browns quarreled while my eyes tried to focus. My neck and back were stiff and sore, I could feel it already. I was crooked where I was laying, and as I tried to shift, a sharp groan escaped my lips.

I felt you touch my leg. "Stay still, John. You've been unconscious. Not sure how bad the injury is yet."

"What happened...?" I murmured, lifting a hand to my head.

"You were assaulted. Two men invaded the flat. One I chased away, but the second I managed to catch." Your eyes flickered to the man, tied by the wrists to the back of one of our kitchen chairs. Its legs looked like toothpicks compared to the girth of his arms, but your Browning kept him at bay, along with a serious-looking wound in his upper left thigh. He glanced over me briefly, his gaze hard. "His identification reads Colonel Jack Argall."

"What did you do to him...?" I grunted and started to sit up, but the pain in my head kept me down.

"He was being difficult, and I had to restrain him." You twirled the gun around in your hand with a smirk. A gunshot wound, then.

As the surroundings came into focus, I noticed in stark detail the bruising around your hailine, and the slight swelling around your eye. A small smear of blood sat beneath your nose. You had held your own, even against him. But your eyes remained sharp, your posture strong but relaxed, the gun bouncing in your hand like it was the remote for the tele.

"I'll tell you one more time, Mr. Argall. You can either comply, or face the consequences."

"What consequences? Are you going to shoot me? Mutilate me? Your methods of persuasion are not very original." He glanced at me. "I don't think you would want to subject your fiancé to that kind of violence, would you."

You brought the nuzzle of your gun to his jaw and drew it back, locking your eyes to his. "Who is your employer?"

"I already told you, I won't-"

With a brisk snap of your arm, the barrel of your gun smashed into Argall's temple with a crack. The sound alone made my skin crawl. But you grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him back upright.

"I'll ask again.  _Who is your employer_?"

"My employer is not someone you want to trifle with." He answered, flexing his jaw. "Someone who is much more cunning than you. You may have me, but you do not have the upper hand, Holmes. Any time now you'll be-"

Your phone chirped, and your hand dipped into your pocket.

Argall rolled his neck. "Could've been quicker."

"Would this be your employer, then?" You glanced at your phone.

 _You have something of mine._  - EL

"They won't be happy you're keeping me." He said with a tsk.

"Why are you of any importance?" You asked, typing in a reply. "You're just a hired thug, a disposable pawn."

"Yes, in your perspective, I am."

"But not to your employer. Interesting." You eyed him, scanning over him, and he met you with agitated hostility. "Sit still, Mr. Argall, and soon enough we'll have this under control. It's a good thing you didn't bet on the 'cunning' part of your speech, isn't it?" You finished typing and hit send.

 _He's been an inconvenience to me._  - SH

The reply came within seconds.

 _Even nuisances have debts to pay. Release him to me, would you, Mr. Holmes?_  - EL

 _I'm afraid that's out of the question._  - SH

 _I would encourage you to reconsider._  - EL

"What is it, Sherlock?" I croaked, forcing myself to sit up.

"Lay down, John, the swelling still hasn't gone down." You started to tap in a message to your brother. "Tell me, Mr. Argall, how long has it been since you started fucking your employer?"

His eyes went wide. "What are you-?"

"It's painstakingly obviously, you might as well have hung a condom from your pocket with her name on it. You've been in her bed recently. This morning, perhaps?" You sighed. "Of course, not many people know about it. You're trying to keep it a secret, the two of you. But I'm sure that fact has been crucial to the position you're in now. It's common knowledge that you don't bring secrets to Baker Street unless there's money or criminal masterminds involved."

 _Jack Argall. On record?_  - SH

"How did you know that?" Argall stammered.

"The same way I know you're former military. Army, if I'm correct. Dishonorable discharge. Youngest child. Alcoholic father. No, mother. Married once; you ended it. You've been sleeping with your employer regularly. I'm sure it helps with the promotions. Obviously, then, your employer is a woman. Young. My guess would be late twenties, early thirties. Blonde hair. Slim but muscular, and curvier past the waist - that is your type, isn't it, Mr. Argall? - but you are much older than she is, by at very least fifteen years. That could be the reason why you're keeping quiet about your relationship, but if she truly were the 'top dog', why would she feel the need to hide anything?

"If she were a mastermind, it wouldn't matter what anyone else thought. It's likely that she's part of a corporation, or that she is taking orders from someone above her, someone who she is either close to or wants to impress. Thank you, Argall, thank you. You've painted me a very fine picture of your employer."

The man's eyes were the size of fishbowls. Your phone chirped again.

 _Former army colonel. Dishonorably discharged in 2003, charges of rape and abuse. Is he a lead?_  - MH

 _I'll ask you politely to release Mr. Argall, before I lose my patience._  - EL

"Listen to her, Holmes." The man said. You looked at him, and he rustled his brow. "If you care at all for John's well-being, you'll let me walk."

"There's been no damage done to him since you've been tied to that chair, I count that as an improvement." You smirked, finishing your reply. "I think you've given me all that I need, Argall. Soon you'll be meeting one of my old friends. His name is Lestrade, and he'll take good care of you back in Scotland Yard. Don't worry, he's already on his way."

Sirens began to wail in the distance, and anger flashed across Argall's face. "I'm warning you, Holmes!"

"Consider me warned." You tapped his forehead with your gun.

 _A woman without patience makes for a case easily solved._  - SH

 _You'll regret you tested me, Mr. Holmes._  - EL

* * *

By the time Scotland Yard had finished in the house, the sun had already set, and I was completely exhausted. Greg took over as soon as they had arrived, securing Argall and having him transported personally by Donovan to the holding facility. We were lucky, too, because evidently your lack of sleep had gotten to you. You spent your time pacing around the flat, your skin clammy, itching at your arms when you thought I wasn't looking.

The paramedics checked me out and announced that I did not in fact have a concussion, which was good. Starting out the holidays with a head injury would have been less than jolly. But I still had a skull-splitting headache and held an ice-bag to my head for the better part of the afternoon. By sun-down the swelling had gone down, and I put the bag back in the freezer, where it belonged.

Greg stuck around, keeping an eye on me and making sure the policemen didn't disturb the flat too much. He chiefly directed the investigation from the couch, sitting beside me. He took it upon himself to ask me questions: when I'd noticed the men, what I could gather about the getaway's appearance, simple things like that. Worry lined his eyes whenever they shifted across my face.

"How are you feeling, John?" He asked, clicking his pen closed. I glanced up at him, surprised with the quick change from formal to informal.

"Like hell," I replied, stretching my leg. "But... what? What do you mean? I'm doing fine."

He seemed less than convinced. "Has Sherlock been looking out for you?"

"Yes, he has." I nodded. "He has been. Y'know, save for this little... dihlemma."

"I'm being serious, John." He sighed, looking down the hall to be sure that you weren't around. "John, listen. If your health isn't improving, there is no reason why you can't come back to my place for a little while. Just get a little break. Y'know, from the stress."

"Are you implying that  _Sherlock_  is making me worse?"

"No, John, no, that's not what I'm saying." Greg sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I'm just worried about you two."

"Thank you, Greg, but I don't think that's necessary."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Alright, John. I'll trust you. But as soon as something goes wrong, I'm going to trust you to let me know about it, alright?" He patted my shoulder. "I want you to get better."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

He nodded. "And, John? Is it just me, or has Sherlock been acting a little... more jumpy than usual? Because he seems a little reckless. Like how he handled Anne. I know he suspected her, and thinking about it, I don't blame him. He was worried. But it was a little sloppy for him. Usually he ties things up nice and pretty. But he didn't bother." He tapped his thigh. "I know it's a been a while, but is there a chance he could be...?"

"What?!" I exclaimed, a little louder than I'd meant to. I quieted. "No. He wouldn't. He's clean."

"Alright, alright. But keep an eye on him, okay?" He pursed his lips. "I promised Mycroft that I'd be transparent if anything ever came up, but I don't want to jump to conclusions. I know he's has to deal with this too. Just, please keep up with me, John. Ask for help if you need it. Alright?"

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry.

Greg exhaled, pulling up the sleeve of his coat to check his watch. "Damn, it's gotten late. I'll get back and see what I can get out of Argall. You two still going to the dinner tomorrow?"

"Planning," I answered.

"Alright. I'll see you then." He smiled, touching my shoulder again as he stood. "I'll say good-bye to Sherlock, too. Rest up."

He turned and left, jogging downstairs with his coat trailing along behind him. As soon as he was out of eyesight, I leaned onto my knees and cradled my thundering head in my hands.

* * *

Clap along if you feel like that's what you wanna review.

Next chapter Thursday.


	14. Chapter 14

Sorry for not posting the chapter on time. Sickness got the best of me. I'm posting two chapters today to make up for it. Happy Easter everyone.

* * *

"...Yes, Mrs. Hudson, we're both quite alright. John's got a bit of a bump on the head, but he'll be alright, the swelling has already gone down almost completely." You paced around the bedroom, your phone held to your ear. You seemed eager to get the conversation over-with, fiddling with your fingers behind your back. "Absolutely not. The inner wall has some damage, but it'll be easily fixed with some plaster. I can do it before you get back." Pause. "No, no, the blood came right up. Not even a smudge. I promise." You glanced at me. "He's doing much better now. He got some pain pills and iced it. Yes, I'll keep an eye on him. Enjoy the rest of your holiday, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, Merry Christmas. Goodnight."

You sighed, sinking onto the bed with the phone in your lap.

"Is she enjoying Holland?" I asked, softly.

"She seems to be." You nodded, looking over me with a familliar expression, searching for a problem. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted." I let out a long breath. "But I don't feel like sleeping."

"That's understandable. You need to relax." You reached over and smoothed my hair back, careful of my bruise.

"What does all this  _mean_ , Sherlock? Is this Moriarty? Is someone trying to revenge him?" I leaned forward, closing my eyes. "What do these people want? Why do all these things keep happening? Are we in danger? Are you in danger?"

You moved closer, crawling to sit beside me. "John, don't think about these things now. I'll figure this out." You put a finger underneath my chin and turned my head toward yours. "I'll take care of you."

"How can you take care of me when you can't even take care of yourself."

You drew back. "What?"

I took a breath and turned to look at you. "You've been acting strange again."

"Again?"

"Greg is worried."

"Worried about what, John?"

"Worried that you've been... shooting up."

Your face went blank. For a few moments you stared at me, the gears in your head slowly turning, trying to decide which emotion would be an appropriate response. I sighed and laid my head against your chest, wrapping an arm around your waist, and rubbed my nose against the fabric of your shirt.

"I want to trust you, Sherlock. I do."

"I haven't done anything."

"I know you haven't."

"Then, why?"

"Because I know you want to."

"I don't-"

"Don't lie, Sherlock." I picked up my head. "It's alright."

"No, John." You pushed yourself up, rolling your hands into fists as you started a brisk pace. "No."

I sat forward, wrapping my arms around my legs. "Sherlock..."

"Lestrade has no right to be saying things like that. Not to you, not to anyone."

"He's just worried about you, Sherlock. He didn't say it to be judgemental. He wants to make sure you're doing alright."

"Did he tell Mycroft?"

"No, he said he wouldn't yet."

"He had better not."

"Why are you getting so upset, Sherlock? If you're still clean, you have nothing to worry about."

"I am still clean."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

"No. George shouldn't have-"

"It's Gr-."

" _I don't care what his fucking name is_." You kicked the leg of the bed, making it shudder. I jumped. "He had no reason to ask you something like that. I haven't touched anything in weeks. Not even a goddamn cigarette. But he has the  _nerve_  to stir up trouble, regardless!" You ran your hands through your hair, continuing to pace the length of the room.

"Calm down, Sherlock," I said quietly. "I'm the only one he said anything to. He's not announcing it to the world. I'll let him know he doesn't need to worry. No one else will know."

"It isn't about  _other_  people, John. It isn't about Mycroft. It's hard enough to function with the current stress you're under, but obviously Lestrade could care less. Why in hell would he think to add another thing to the load, I have no bloody idea." You heaved with anger, nostrils flaring. "Tell him to keep his mouth shut next time. He doesn't understand what's going on. He just needs to keep his bloody mouth shut."

"He was only trying to help. Why are you getting so worked up over this?"

" _Because it's wrong_ , John. You don't need more to worry about. You're already hurting, you're already struggling with everything that's been happening. The panic attacks, the meds, the burglary, the relationship. You're already dealing with so much, he's only going to overwhelm you. I don't want to overwhelm you. You can't get overwhelmed."

"I'm not overwhelmed."

"But I  _am_. I'm overwhelmed." You dropped your head to touch my knee. "I want to help you. I want to keep you safe. But you're right. I can't. I can't help you, and I hate it."

I reached out to smooth your hair. "You are helping me, Sherlock."

"No. I'm not. You keep getting worse, and I can't even keep you safe much less healthy."

"That's not your fault."

"It is my fault. It's my fault that you asphyxiated in the study. It's my fault that you're relapsing. It's my fault that you're in danger, and it's my fault that I can't figure out this goddamn case, and I am sorry. I am so sorry."

You looked up at me with your eyes filled with pain. I reached out to touch your cheek, and you pulled closer, brushing your lips against mine. You kept whispering I'm sorry as you moved across my skin, your hands roaming across my back. My heart trembled, but I knew that what you needed was reassurance, and so I left you to do whatever you wanted. You slipped my jumper over my head in one fluid motion, your heat spreading across me like wildfire.

I closed my eyes and my mind, forcing out my thoughts and replacing them with your body, digging my fingernails into the soft flesh of your back. Desire seeped through my veins like honey, slowing down the world, dripping from your fingertips. I wrapped my legs around your waist, pulling you flush against me, and I heard your breath catch. Your hands found my hips, your breath searing my skin, and I moaned in pleasure.

As my heart sped up, I felt the walls start to close in around me. I tried to ignore it as it began, but my lungs became painfully tight, and I started to feel dizzy. I pressed my hands against your chest, but you didn't stop. Your tightening grip stung as I tried to get you off. My pulse kept racing faster and faster, and I felt my lungs begin to die as panic shrieked through my brain.

"It's asphyxia,  _asphyxia_ ," You shouted, cradling my head. "John, can you hear me? John."

I couldn't breathe. I reached out for you, twisting locks of your hair between my fingers, pulling you close to me again. You held me close, rocking gently while I shivered against the darkness. The room spun around us.

* * *

My wrists burned with pain, sliced open and pouring blood down my forearms. I gripped the knife in my shaking fingers as the lights nearly blinded me. My stomach rolled with the smell of hot blood and smoking flesh, reaching desperately for the wall and leaving a long smear of red behind. The room was too hot. It closed in around me.

I stumbled to the sink and turned on the tap, but the water boiled out of the faucet. I tried to scream, to make a sound, but my throat was scorched dry. I clawed at my throat, struggling to breathe, but my nails only smeared hot blood across my neck. My wounds kept pumping, blood dripping from the walls, burning my skin and ripping me open.

Death comes to everyone, you had said. Embrace it when it comes. Maybe this was the death that I deserved.

* * *

Then, I was in the suicide ward. I recognized it immediately. The small, bleak room leered at me from all directions. My heart dropped, dread lacing its fingers in my throat.

It was a horrifying place. I could scream for years at the blank walls and there would be nothing to answer me. Floods of terrifying reminiscence washed through me. I slammed my fists against that door until I saw stars. I hated that room. That room. Terror racked my shoulders as I collapsed against the cold, white flooring.

Asphyxia was its name. That's what you called it. It was a slimy, crawling monster, one that slipped easily in and out at the edges of my vision. With a swell of pain it bit down on my mind, churning, spewing out nightmares and visions and horrible shrieks echoing in the back of my head. Its teeth were lined with venom, psychosomatic tortures beyond anything I'd ever felt.

* * *

I screamed. You jolted. You cried. I trembled.

* * *

You were there, every time. When I would turn, there you were. When I was sitting by myself, you were right there beside me. When I was walking, you were talking to me, striding along. When I was cold, you were there to warm me. When I was alone, you made sure I wasn't lonely. When I was sad, you cheered me up. When I couldn't take it anymore, you were the one who was there, whispering that I could live and breathe another day. Just another day.

But you weren't there, really. You were laying on the pavement of St. Bart's, blood soaking your skin. Somewhere deep in my mind I knew that there was where I had left you. Where you still laid. Where you had left me. Where I still stood. Alone, on the pavement of St. Bart's, waiting for someone to come and tell me it was all a hoax.

* * *

Your fingers, through my hair. Your voice, in my head. "It's just a dream. Asphyxia."

* * *

No one came, Sherlock. No one came.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Before you ask, yes, this is the new chapter. You didn't misread or misclick.

I decided to take another rotation to go back and work on this chapter some more. One of my followers pointed out some flaws in the last version, and I didn't want to sit on a chapter I knew wasn't acceptable. I'm glad I did it, too. There are some small changes in plot, but most of the adjustments I made were in the writing itself, so if you don't want to read the chapter again you don't have to. If you do, though, let me know if it reads any better than the last one. (Hopefully it does. Crossing fingers.)

Also, I'd just like to publicly state how much I enjoy this whole process. Writing, editing, hearing from you, it all makes me really happy and I'm glad I'm doing it. Keep the reviews and the messages coming, I always look forward to hearing from you.

Enjoy.

* * *

Gray skies loomed over Christmas morning, chilling the walls, strangling the fire, and flooding the streets with snow. I shivered through three wool sweaters. You grumbled bitterly at the lack of insulation, but there really wasn't much you could do. I bundled Gladdie and myself in blankets on the couch, arming myself with a cup of hot tea and avoiding the flooring at all costs. The fire crackled idly as you stalked throughout the house.

I wasn't sure if you were deliberately avoiding eye contact or if you were just distant. You had woken in a strange mood, your voice too harsh and your grip too tight. You had made breakfast for the two of us and even taken care of the dog, but when I tried to make conversation you cut me off short. I tried to figure out why, but your defenses were impenetrable. Eventually I stopped bothering.

That morning I finished the rest of the pills. You watched me carefully as I swallowed them with my tea. I had felt slightly nauseous since last night's episode, and though relaxing had helped relieve most of it, the room still swam when I moved my head too quickly. I prayed that I hadn't caught some kind of virus, God knew that was exactly what I needed. But it gave me an excuse to skip lunch, so I wasn't complaining too much.

In a way, I was angry with myself for feeling so dispirited. Somehow it seemed wrong to be anything less than euphoric on Christmas. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape from my thick mental fog, and so I curled up tighter and sipped my tea. Even if I felt less than wonderful at home, it could probably be credited to walking on eggshells whenever you came into the room. I would get better when I was with Greg and Anne and the others, or at least I hoped.

Mid-way through the morning I realized that you hadn't called your parents. Begrudgingly you resigned to do so, but only with heavy glares and plenty of incoherent mumbing.

"Yes, Mum, John's fine. Of course I'm taking care of him." You rolled your eyes.

I turned my head at my name. " _They_  know about the accident?"

You nodded.

"How do they know?" I asked.

You shrugged, then motioned toward the phone, turning away from me. "Yes, yes, he's keeping warm. Listen, Mum, who told you about the doctor's visit?" You paused, nodding again. "Oh, Mycroft. Alright. That should have been fairly obvious. Next time he calls with the latest family gossip, be sure to thank him for me; we're always looking for new sets of nerves to include in our personal problems."

I chuckled as your mother's shrill voice barked across the line. But I paused. Hearing Mycroft's name jogged something in my memory. "Hey, Sherlock? Where is Mycroft's gift?"

"You got him something?" You asked, looking fairly disapproving.

"No, he got us something. Where did you put it?"

You shrugged and returned to the conversation with your mother. With a grunt, I stretched out my legs and gritted my teeth against the cold. I distinctly remembered Mycroft's white wrapping paper and figured that the package should have been easy enough to spot. Walking to the kitchen, I sifted through the clutter on your shelves, but there was no gift in sight.

"I feel bad that we haven't even opened it yet," I muttered, leaning against a chair. "It's been more than a week."

"Don't worry about it. Knowing him, it's probably something ordinary. Cologne, or socks." You sighed. "No, Mum, I wasn't talking to you."

"It's still something. You really don't know where it is?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

You flailed. "I'm on the phone, John."

I huffed, taking a seat. An uneasy feeling came over me as I thought about the package. I kept glancing toward the kitchen window, the one we had found left ajar. Could the burglary have had something to do with the disappearance of Mycroft's gift? In fact, this whole debacle had begun as a response to Mycroft's gift. You and I had been on our way to find it when I had passed out. He had never done anything like that for us before, nor had he seemed like he ever would. Could Mycroft, or his suspicious package, have had something to do with all this?

"John?" You held your phone to your chest, looking over me. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I touched my forehead.

* * *

Somehow I managed to stomach a portion of food from Anderson's Christmas dinner, and I wished I could have enjoyed it. Though everything looked wonderful, my appetite had never recovered, and even the thought of eating made me nauseous. Luckily no one else seemed to notice. It was good to spend time with Greg, Sarah, Anderson, and the others, listening to their various Scotland Yard stories and laughing together with them. It made the house glow and spill out with warmth - a good change from our chilly flat.

Anderson had even done himself a bit of grooming, trimming his beard and whatnot. His voice was still piercing as ever when you prodded at him, but his eyes sparkled cheerfully, watching you with a simple sort of happiness. Molly was the same way; her gaze was whimsical, as if you had finally come to them again after a long separation. Sally tried to put up a front, but even she was drawn into the group's light attitude. They came beside you, as colleagues and as friends, reviving you.

It was a divine thing to watch. By the time dinner was finished, your shoulders lost their stress, your jaw loosened, and you held your wineglass lax in your hand. What I had hoped for the night to do for me, I watched do for you. On one hand, I knew it was good for you to enjoy yourself. On the other hand, it was melancholy, because my persisting fog excluded myself from the divinity.

The night progressed, and you, Greg, and Sally involved yourselves in a vigorous game of darts in the living room. I tried to at least watch, but all the noise had started to hurt my head, and eventually I got up to retreat toward the back with a warm mug of cider. What I really wanted was a glass of wine, but I figured that alcohol wouldn't really have mixed well with anxiety medication, so I tilted my head against the wall and erased the possibility. I would have to find another medium for the Christmas spirit this year.

While the noise steadily increased with each round of drinks, Anne noticed me from across the room. She swirled her own glass and watched me a few moments before finding her way over, settling into a chair beside me. "You aren't watching?" She asked, adding a smile.

"Nah. Headache. I'll probably hear all about it later, anyway." I smiled back, sipping at my cider.

"That's true." She crossed her legs and leaned back. There was a blush of sympathy on her cheeks as she studied me. "Do you need an aspirin?"

"No, it's fine. It's just the racket. It'll pass."

"Sure?" Anne paused, then stretched her neck to look around the room. "If you'd rather go someplace quieter, I think Anderson has a terrace."

"Oh, yeah, quieter would be good." I nodded, standing up, and she followed with a start.

"I'll get your coat for you," She said, already stepping toward the door. "Wouldn't want you to catch a cold, right?"

"Thanks." I chuckled at her. Her red curls bobbed as she walked off toward the coat-stand. Careful not to let my eyes linger too long, I turned toward the glass doors that separated the balcony from the rest of the house.

The roof had kept most the snow off of Anderson's limited balcony, but I swept a few stubborn clumps off the railing and curled my fingers at the cold. Large snowflakes floated slowly through the air. Truly, our sour weather could never look so gorgeous except for on the city street. A small sofa stood two paces to my left, and I sat down just as Anne slid the door closed behind her.

"Damn, it's lovely," She sighed, taking in the view. "If I lived here, I'd never leave the balcony."

"It's beautiful," I agreed.

"I love the city. It's mayhem during the day, but at night it's so serene." She sighed, then handed over my coat. "There you go."

"Thanks." I swung it over my shoulders as Anne took a seat, wrapping her own jacket tighter around herself. "Yes, this is much better. Much less noise."

"I thought so." She laughed lightly, taking another sip from her glass. Her green eyes seemed to reflect all the colors of the street, glistening with soft yellows and reds, her pale skin drawn up into a smile curved into her lips. I caught myself staring yet again, this time shamelessly, and she glanced at me just as I looked away.

"I have a question for you, Anne, if you'll answer it," I said, hesitantly.

"Of course," She replied.

"But it's a little personal," I continued.

She laughed. "Go ahead."

How does a man like Greg catch the eye of a girl like you? I mean, you're absolutely stunning. You don't look like you could be a day over twenty-five. I know Greg has some charm to him, but I can hardly imagine someone like yourself going for him without some kind of incentive."

Anne made a strange face, and I was afraid I had offended her.

"Not that I would think you were some kind of call girl, I just thought it was a little, er, strange. No, not strange." I wrung my wrists. "You're beautiful. You could've had any young man you wanted, and yet you chose Greg. Why Greg? Is he really that attractive to you?"

"I don't really know." Anne answered, with a slight chuckle. "Can we really explain it? Can you explain why you're in love with a raging genius sociopath?"

"I guess not." I took a gulp of cider. "Sorry."

"You're fine." She smiled. "But thank you."

"For what?"

"For saying I was beautiful."

My ears burned. "You're welcome."

We fell back into silence, but it was more a relaxed silence than an awkward one. Anne leaned forward onto her knees, watching the snow fall, catching stray flakes in her curls. Her expression had changed, just slightly. Instead of her normal glow, she now seemed solemn, her lips drawn up tight. I didn't know what was bothering her, but I didn't trust myself to ask, so I just watched.

In passing, I noticed that her nails had been professionally done. At any other time, I wouldn't have thought twice about it, but tonight they caught my eye. According to you, professional nails meant a woman was trying to impress. Her hair looked like it could have been done by a professional, too, though I figured girls have enough skill n the area of hair anyway. The knit dress she wore was pretty, but not particularly in-style, so obviously she wasn't looking for a large group's acceptance. Maybe a closed group, or one person in particular. Nothing about her seemed even remotely suspicious or deceptive; in fact, her whole demeanor was very attractive and friendly. Though I had only met her a few times, I already considered her a friend. Her openness made her easy to trust. How in the world could you have suspected her of foul play?

"You seem to look at me that way a lot, John." Anne said, suddenly. "Sherlock does the same thing, but his is only a glance. Yours lasts longer."

"Oh... I'm sorry." I blinked and looked at the floor.

"And you always look so sad."

I stared at her, shifting slightly. "I'm not sad. Just tired."

"Are you sure?"

I shifted again. "Yeah."

She tilted her head, her eyebows bending forward. "John."

"Okay, Anne, look. I don't want to talk about it right now. Okay?" I swirled my mug. "It's Christmas."

"You've hardly interacted with anyone at all."

"Yes I have! I talked to Greg for a little while."

"A little while. But you've not done much of anything other than that, except listen. You hardly even ate a bite. Have you lost weight?"

"I  _don't_  want to talk about this, Anne." I tried to sound commanding, but it took the breath from my lungs. I closed my eyes and sat back, my head falling against the spine of the sofa. "I know you mean well, but I came here to get away from the problems, at least for a little while. I don't need anyone else giving me coping methods."

"I'm just worried about you, John."

"Thank you. But don't be."

She frowned.

"Look, I'm sorry. I've just had a long day. Sherlock's been acting strange and I've just been a little under the weather." I tapped my foot. "I'll talk to you about what's going on, just not right now. Not here. Sometime when I'm feeling better, when I can get it all out without getting worked up."

"Alright." She thought a moment. "Why don't we go out?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Let's schedule a day. We can go for lunch, just the two of us. Have a chat."

"Well, you know what Sherlock would think of that."

"Of course we wouldn't do anything indecent," She stammered, playing with the hem of her dress. "We'll just talk. I have a feeling that you'll prefer opening up away from him." Her eyebrows knitted. "I want to help you feel better. If getting this off your chest is the way to do it, I'm okay with that."

I smiled a little. "Thank you, Anne. Yeah, we can do it."

"Great." She pulled out her mobile phone and handed it to me. "Put in your number."

In the time it took to enter it, inside, you had noticed I was missing. Your quick glance caught the door of the balcony and you jumped toward it, leaving your empty wineglass behind, and you thrust your upper body into the cold. Anne and I both looked up, and as you registered the scene, the alarm faded from your eyes and was replaced with irritation.

"Lost your game?" I asked, handing Anne's phone back.

"Yeah." You flexed your jaw, stepping out with us and closing the door. "I take it that this means neither of you care much about what opinions I might hold?"

"The noise inside was hurting John's head, we came out because it was quiet." Anne stated.

You glanced between us. "So, no."

"We didn't think your  _opinions_  would mind." I met your eyes. "We're just sitting."

"Secluded, tucked away in a balcony where no one can see you and no one can hear you." You flicked your glare to Anne, narrowing. "I don't appreciate you luring John away from me. You can leave now."

She shifted, but didn't get up. "There's no reason to get upset, Sherlock. You know that John wouldn't do anything you wouldn't approve of."

"Obviously he already has. Leave."

"No. Not if you're just going to berate him. John's worn out, he doesn't need that from you."

"It's not your place to be deciding what John  _needs_."

I set my hand on her knee. "Anne, it's alright. Just go."

"No, it's not!" She exclaimed. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"It's not worth it," I whispered.

"Listen to him." You snapped. "Get out, before you make any bigger of a mess."

"You're the one making a mess." She replied, standing. "You should be the one inside, not me."

As she stepped to leave, you intercepted her, pushing yourself close to her face. She chirped a little in fright, shying away from you as you growled. "You  _will_  stay away from John." You declared. "I'm only warning you once."

Her nose curled with disgust. "You're drunk."

You yanked open the door, your eyes never leaving hers. She tried to remain apathetic, but the color had drained from her face, and she slipped back into the flat with her hands nervously bunched at her waist.

I was enraged and embarrassed with you and the way you had treated Anne, and it put power back behind my voice. "What the  _hell was that,_  Sherlock?!" I demanded, putting my mug down. "That was completely uncalled for. How dare you act that way toward her. All she did was reach out to me, and think about what I wanted, while you were in there wasting time. You couldn't have cared less about what I was doing until you realized that I was with her."

"I've told you-"

"No, Sherlock. Don't make excuses. It isn't about Anne, or anything that Anne did, it's about your immaturity, and your inability to acknowledge a perfectly good person. Jesus Christ, what's gotten into you, Sherlock? You're not pissy because Anne and I were out here. You've been pissy all day, pissy for no reason at all, and you used your pathetic moodiness as an excuse to be a complete  _dick_  to Anne. Don't try to tell me that y-"

" _Shut up_."

"Y-"

Your voice burst with rage. "You're a  _goddamn idiot_ , John. You don't even see that she's walking all over you. You're  _sick_ , you're  _unguarded_ , and you're letting her worm her way right into your head. But instead of admitting it, you're accusing me of being stubborn to cover up the fact that you can barely function on your own!"

I froze, staring at you. "I-"

"No,  _shut up_ , John. You don't know anything. I thought your illness only made you weak, but it made you useless. I can't even trust you to follow my instructions. You're right, this isn't about Anne. It never was about Anne. It was about  _you_ , you and your bloody flaccid judgement. Your senses are slow and stupid. And yet you blame me! Do I need to chain you down now, too? Like some kind of  _lunatic_?"

"Alright, alright, quiet down," I stammered. "You've just had too-"

"You're letting yourself dissolve. I thought it was because of something I did, but it's not about me. You're refusing to answer to reason, and you're content just to lay down and die. You ignore everyone and everything else so that you can stay in your own little world where you don't have to deal with your problems. Get out of your own head, goddammit. I'm trying to help you, but you don't fucking  _listen_. And if you don't  _listen_ , what's the _point?!_ "

You shattered my mug against the outer wall, its shards scattering in all directions. Your breaths heaved clouds billowing from your nose and mouth. I gripped the arm of the sofa, watching you with wide eyes. My chest throbbed with pain, but I said nothing.

In a flurry, you stormed back into the flat and cut through toward the front door. I quickly got up behind you, disregarding my crutch, and stumbled inside as fast as I could. No one tried to get between us, or even had the time to. You made it to the door twice as fast as I could, and my voice was strained as I finally caught up to you.

"Wait, Sherlock, please." I put my hand on your arm, but you pulled away, opening the door without so much as glancing my way.

"Find your own way home," You muttered, slamming the door behind you.

* * *

Crap what song did I use for last week I can't even remember.

Arabella's got some interstellar-gator skin reviews.

New* chapter Sunday.

*(I promise.)


	16. Chapter 16

We're past the halfway point ahhhh. Excited x100. Only up from here.

Fun fact American cider is non-alcoholic while British cider is alcoholic. Obviously John was drinking the non-alcoholic kind in the last chapter. I'll have to change that up but it's tiny so it can wait.

Enjoy the new chapter.

* * *

Greg and Anne saw me back to the flat that night. Greg kept complaining about your level of maturity, but Anne only set her hand gently against my arm and held it there. Both of them were worried about letting me stay with you, since Mrs. Hudson was in Holland and I would be alone. I promised to send them a text as soon as I was able to get inside. As the cab pulled up before 221B, Anne gave my arm a squeeze and said goodnight.

I crutched up the steps and unlocked the door, waving back to the cab as it pulled away. As I opened the door, Gladdie thrust his nose through the opening, making short whimpering sounds. You had obviously forgotten that he couldn't climb the stairs on his own. The poor pup was shivering terribly. I scooped him up as I closed the door.

The house was dark, so I assumed you had gone to bed. It was late enough not to question it. I made it up the stairs and poked my head into the sitting room just to check. Rather than going to your bedroom, I braved the stairs up to mine, taking Gladstone with me. I wasn't feeling particularly fond of you at the moment, and I would rather have not spent the night in your bed.

My old bedroom was still mostly furnished, although it had been out-of-use since I started sleeping with you. Small scratch-marks in the middle of the floor reminded me of your criminal from the other day, but I tried not to fuss about it. I flipped the light on and made it a point to check that the windows were properly closed and bolted.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. _Everything alright?_  - GL

 _Yes. He's asleep_. - JW

 _Okay. Let me know if you need anything._  - GL

 _Thank you._  - JW

I sighed, sitting down on the bed and pulling Gladstone onto my lap. The room was much too quiet. There was no soft breathing, no oblong shape tucked underneath the covers, and no sweet smell of your shampoo in my pillows. It had only taken a few weeks for me to grow accustomed to having you so close. Now, regardless of the way you had treated me earlier, a part of me still missed it.

Gladdie whimpered and nuzzled his nose into my palm. There were no nightclothes left in the closet, but I didn't mind sleeping in my jumper. I kicked off my shoes and leaned my crutch against the bed-table, wrestling with the blankets to pull them over both I and the dog. The sheets smelled like detergent and dust.

* * *

I hardly dreamt that night. I could see your shadow, but I couldn't touch you. Everything was cold, and I was alone.

* * *

The windows were light when I woke up. I squinted and read the time from my phone. 8:44. I couldn't believe I had slept so long, mostly because I felt as if I hadn't slept at all. My leg was sore and my eyelids drooped heavily. Gladdie was the one who urged me out of bed, yowling and licking at my face until I complied.

I crept slowly down the stairs, dog in arm, hoping to determine whether or not you were still irritable this morning, but there was no sign of you at all. The flat was quiet and empty. I was both relieved and slightly confused, since you hadn't mentioned any cases or errands. Had you even come home at all last night? But then I saw a little note, folded and standing neatly on my armchair. John was scrawled across the front, in your handwriting. I figured I had might as well read it.

 _Gone out investigating in Brixton. Be back tonight. Possibly late. Don't stay up.  
_ _Made a reservation with your doctor, you're due there at 2. Bring paperwork.  
_ _Sherlock_

"How thoughtful of you," I muttered, folding the page again and sticking it in my pocket. A doctor's visit wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my time, but there wasn't much arguing, since you had already made the reservation. Skipping would only cause more trouble than going, so I resigned to it.

I went to change clothes and continued with my morning.

* * *

With all necessary politeness aside, I really did hate my doctor. I stayed with him because Mrs. Thompson referred him to me, not because of my own choice. I trusted her judgement. Nonetheless, every visit with the man was a pain in the ass. He walked into the room with the same guarded look on his face every time, as if he was prepared for a struggle and assured of his victory.

He strategically positioned his clipboard between us. "On a scale from one to ten, how stressed are you feeling right now?"

"Eight," I answered, my jaw tight. "Fluctuating one or two points."

"Fluctuating?"

"You're making me nervous."

He chuckled and smiled. "There's nothing to be worried about, John." He flipped through his pages, scribbing something down. "The nurse said you were putting up a bit of a fight."

"Yes. She was borderline harassing me."

"She was trying to get a blood sample." He sighed. "Well, your bloodwork is clean. Your blood pressure is still running a little high, though. Have you been feeling anxious?"

"No."

"Have you been having any more panic attacks?"

"I'd prefer not to call them panic attacks," I stated.

"Then you have had more."

"I didn't say that."

"How many?"

"I didn't say that!"

The doctor leaned back, balancing his clipboard on his knee. "John, I'm going to ask you to be honest with me. You told Mrs. Thompson that you wanted more input, didn't you? You can do that by proving to us that you are mentally sound and able to answer for yourself. If you can't, I'll have to take measures to ensure your health and safety."

"You mean you'll ship me off to an institution until I behave."

"Is that why you're being stubborn? You're still holding a grudge because of the ward?"

"No. I just don't trust you."

"The suicide ward was not an easy solution for me, John. It was the last resort." He shifted in his seat. "Regardless of the way you feel about me, it's my job to do what I can to keep you healthy. Last time, I failed. This time, I plan to make every move possible so that I will not fail again."

Both of us were quiet for a few seconds, until he clicked his pen and took another breath.

"Let's start again. Have you been having more panic attacks?"

I chewed my cheek. "Yes, I have."

"How many?"

"Only two. Well, three. Twice I actually lost consciousness, and another time I only lost my balance. I caught it before it could come on, and the breathing exercises worked to stop it."

"Good. That's very good." He started to write. "Do you remember what days they were?"

"The 21st, 22rd, and 24th."

"They occur frequently, then?"

"...I guess."

"Have you identified anything that might trigger them?"

"No, not really." I purposefully left out the fact that one of them was in the bedroom. I didn't want you having to deal with slack from my doctor about it.

"How has the medication affected you?"

"Don't even get me started," I snorted. "I have no appetite, I can hardly eat anything. I'm always tired, but I can hardly sleep, and never without dreams or nightmares. I've had nausea, tremors, trouble walking, pain in my leg and shoulder, memory problems."

He kept scribbling. "I'm sorry you're having so much trouble."

"I'd improve if you took me off the medication."

He clicked his pen. "John, maybe you should rearrange your thinking. Instead of blaming the medication for your symptoms, you should assign them to your real problem. You may not have come to terms with it yet, but your mental status-."

"Is completely normal. You're the one blaming the symptoms on the wrong thing. If you'd just let me  _show_  you-"

"We can't take that chance."

"Yes, we can, because it's my choice."

"You haven't given the medication time to work effectively. I truly believe that if you would just give it a chance that you would be surprised at how well it works. I've prescribed the same thing to many of my patients and in most cases it's worked wonderfully."

"Maybe I'm not most cases."

"Give it time, John."

"It didn't work last time."

"We administered it too late last time. Which is exactly what we're trying to avoid." He shifted again. "There is no quick fix, John. There isn't a pill you can take to make your problems go away immediately. It takes time, it takes effort, and it takes opening up to me and to Ella."

"I can do all those things  _without_  being on medication."

"Can you? Because you haven't been showing me you can."

"Take me off the medicine and I'll show you."

"If you'd just give it a month or two to properly-"

"I can't do this for a month!" I exclaimed, gripping my armrests. "I can't eat, I can't sleep. My leg has never been worse, even since Afghanistan.  _I don't need this._  There stress in my life, yes. There's  _always_ stress. There's always going to  _be_  stress. This medication is only making things worse, and so much harder to handle. You need to take me off.  _Now_."

"Calm down." The doctor said, quietly. "You can trust me, John. The medicine  _will_  work. It just needs time."

"It's out of time," I growled.

The doctor frowned, then started writing again, his clipboard bowing just slightly enough so that I could see it. My hand started to shake as I read his long handwriting.

 _High-risk.  
_ _Increase dosage.  
_ _May require hospitalization._

Once I saw that, I was finished. I faintly recall saying "sod this" at the man, but everything thereafter was a collective blur of rage. I seized my coat from beside the door and tore off down the hall, leaving the door gaping open behind me. I heard the doctor come running after me, telling me to stop, but I was boiling over and wanted nothing to do with anyone at the present moment. I just wanted to get home, back to the quiet and away from these hospital bastards.

But the doctor had pressed the emergency service button, and several nurses now joined his brigade. One male nurse grabbed my arm, and in angry reflex I connected my fist to the side of his jaw. It took three nurses to restrain me, and another two to administer a sedative. The world slowly wound down, grinding to a stop.

* * *

You were called promptly after my episode. The hospital staff wouldn't let me leave alone, insisting that you come to escort me. Of course, you were coming all the way from Brixon, so it took a good amount of time, and you weren't very happy by the time you got there. Regardless, my doctor wanted a private conversation with you before we left. My wrist twitched with annoyance as I waited outside his office, slumped in one of the waiting chairs, tapping the foot of my crutch against a coffee-table.

After what seemed like much too long, you came out from the office with a manilla folder tucked under your arm. I roused out of my daze and straightened. "Are we done?"

"Yes. Let's try to get home before it's dark." You glanced over me, expression guarded.

"Has everything been cleared up?" I asked, standing.

"More or less." You pulled a bottle of pills out of your sleeve and tossed them toward me. "Let's go."

I grumbled at the bottle, but you paid no attention. You stalked toward the door, wrapping your coat tightly around yourself. The snow had stopped, but there was still a humid chill in the air, as if the clouds were only waiting for their next opprotunity to strike. I shivered on the sidewalk while you hailed a cab, watching the shadows move across your back.

We didn't say between the street and the cab, sitting on opposite sides from each other, me bundled in my coat and you in your scarf. A small scowl still lingered on your face, and it made me nervous to interact with you. I was tired and faint. If you were going to act like a child, then I was going to let you. I was not going to entertain your pathetic attitude for one second.

But after a little while, you were the one to clear your throat. "John."

I glanced up at you. "Yes?"

You turned from the window. "My behavior last night was uncalled for. I had too much to drink and said things I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend you too badly."

I stared at you, and we held eye contact. "Who put you up to it."

"Lestrade."

"Figures." I sighed. "Yeah, it's fine, Sherlock. But don't ever do that to me again, alright? It was humiliating."

"I'll be more careful."

"And you need to apologize to Anne, too. It doesn't matter if you suspect her, she deserves more respect than that."

Your eyes turned sour. "I'll apologize. But only because you asked. I'd rather you not get involved with her so quickly. She hadn't been nearly as-"

"Okay."

"...What?"

"Okay. I'll be more careful. Sorry."

"No defense? No compromise?"

"I've given up trying to argue with you. If you want me to be cautious, I'll be cautious." I leaned my head against the frame of the window. "You're Sherlock Holmes, after all. You know better than I do. I'm just the blogger."

"Alright." You still looked slightly suspicious, but you chose not to press the issue, which I appreciated. I really just didn't want to deal with it then. You shifted. "You didn't come to bed last night."

"No. I slept upstairs."

"You should have come in."

"I didn't want to make things worse."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

You pursed your lips and looked out the window again.

* * *

I've got two letters for you. One of them's F, and the other one's review.

Next update Thursday.


	17. Chapter 17

Sorry that this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but I was stuck between smashing two chapters together awkwardly and having a dwarf chapter, so I went with the lesser of two sins. Enjoy anyway!

* * *

"We really should eat," I said, sitting down in my armchair and stretching out my leg. You had bought two sandwiches from the Sub Shop downstairs and left them on the table beside my chair when we came inside. Neither of us had bothered to touch them. I had an excuse not to be hungry, but you didn't.

"It's only Thursday," You tsked. "I'm alright."

"You say that, but you bought two sandwiches without me asking you to." I motioned. "Sit down."

Sighing, you lowered yourself into your own chair. I could see the small hesitation in your fingertips as you reached for your sandwich. I ignored it for the time, but I looked twice when I noticed the dark hollow in your cheeks. Obviously you had been avoiding food again, to your own disadvantage. But I had only seen you eat the other night. How could you get so pale in that short amount of time?

I brought it up. "You look like a ghost."

"You're one to talk," You deflected, taking a bite. "I'm out of nicotine patches."

"No wonder you look so exhausted."

"Running around in Brixton takes its toll."

I nodded. That seemed to be an acceptable excuse. "What were you doing there, anyway? In Brixton?'

"The case. Well,  _technically_  it's a case."

"Were you with Lestrade?"

"No, on my own." You turned your shoulders toward the web. "Mycroft sent me Argall's file, and so I went to pay a visit to some of his old acquaintances. Lots of interviews."

"Argall, our burglar?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Anything useful?"

"A lot, actually." You stood up, stepping toward your web. "There wasn't much they could tell me about Argall's current activities, but I did get a very interesting picture of his ambitions. He has friends in high places: politicians, businessmen, ambassadors -  _wealthy_  men. Men of importance. He demands his pay high, so his overhead is definitely not short of funding."

As you spoke, you side-stepped along the wall, trailing your fingers along each of the pages. My eyes fell on your shoulders and your back. You were tense and guarded, your entire stature echoing with tension. I briefly wondered why - you had apologized, I had forgiven you, there wasn't anything left to say. But still your muscles were still tight as you stepped closer to the wall.

"In that way, then, while investigating Argall, we can catch just a glimpse of our mastermind's shadow," You contined. "The fact that he chose to bite down on you shows both sadism and intelligence. She has identified you as a pressure point of mine, which means that she has the ability to gather personal information through some source. She is in a position of management, but is also managed herself, by some kind of power. And of course we already know that she is a woman, and that her initials are EL."

" _E_ , then... She's just after me to get you?"

"It's what I'm assuming. Unless you've been getting into some kind of business you haven't been telling me about." You grunted and put your head in your hands. "This needs to be on paper."

You turned back toward your desk, fishing for a pen, and leaped back to the web. As you wrote, your opposite hand shook.

The realization settled on me. Maybe what I thought was exhaustion only  _looked_  like exhaustion. My stomach coiled with dread.

"John?"

Your eyes were sharp and alert. You scanned my face. Looking for a problem.

My words formed as they came. "You shot up, didn't you."

You froze. Slowly, your lips pressed flat.

I reached out for my sandwich, trying to busy my hands. I couldn't make eye contact. "Last night or this morning?"

"...John, I..."

"Where'd you get the drugs? Do you have a stash?"

"No. No stash."

"Just that dose, then?"

"Yes."

"Alright." I set my sandwich in my lap, fiddling with a leaf of lettuce.

You cautiously approached, sliding back into your chair. "...You're not angry?"

"No." I let out a long exhale, looking up at you. My whole body felt cold. "You can do what you want. But don't make me a part of it, Sherlock."

Silence. I leaned forward onto my knees and ran my hands through my hair.

"What do you mean?" You asked.

My voice wavered. "I'm tired. I want to help you, but right now I can't. I can't do anything. I can't even be angry. I don't want to grapple with you over everything, and I don't want any more conflict. Not with you, not with Greg, not with the doctor. It hurts, and I want it to stop. I'm not angry, I'm not frustrated, and I'm not disappointed. I'm just... miserable. And I don't want to be miserable anymore."

A visible wave of guilt washed over you, starting in your eyes and washing down your shoulders, your hands, your legs. I could almost feel the pain on your face. It radiated so heavily off you, it filled my eyes with tears.

"I'm sorry," You whispered.

I leaned back in my chair, covering my face with my hand and trying to keep myself under control. I hated to cry, especially in front of you, but I could feel the sobs building in my chest. I heard you stand, and you gently pressed your lips to my forehead, brushing my hair back before walking off into the bedroom. When you came back, your coat and scarf had been replaced with your bow and instrument. You began a melody as you came from the kitchen. It was soft and gentle, romantic and slow. I recognized it easily. It was one of my favorites.

"Just relax for a little while, John," You said, and moved to your spot beside the window.

I nodded and closed my eyes, letting the music replace my thoughts.

* * *

I never even noticed when I fell asleep, or when you moved me into the bedroom. I could still hear the short spurts of violin, floating through the house as you thought, stopping abruptly as you jotted down notes or adjusted your web. It was a pleasant thing to wake up to, but when I tried to stretch, the dull pain in my leg distracted me. Every muscle from my knee to my hip seemed to throb with pain. I moaned, rubbing my thigh gently.

As I stirred, I briefly wondered what had woken me. Then I saw the blue light coming from the screen of my mobile phone. It vibrated, clamouring along the surface of the bed-table before I could catch it. I had gotten a text.

 _Hey, John, it's Anne. Is everything alright with S?_  - AW

I yawned and typed in a reply.  _Yes. He's calmed down. Apologized, too._  - JW

Her reply came within a few seconds.  _Oh, good! :) I'm glad. Did you still want to get together to talk?_  - AW

It took me a moment to think about it. I had told you I would be more careful, but at the same time, after what you did, you deserved a little bit of disobedience. I knew you were wrong about her, anyway, it was just a matter of your trust. But I figured there was no harm done if you didn't hear of it. You would be gone the better part of tomorrow. I could get out and back without you realizing I had left. I started to text.

 _Sure. How does tomorrow sound?_  - JW

 _Tomorrow is perfect! How about you come to Camden? The café where I work is darling_. - AW

S _ounds good to me. Text me the address and I'll met you there. What time?_  - JW

 _About noon? Here's the address._  - AW

 _Alright, noon. I'll see you then._  - JW

 _Looking forward to it! :)_  - AW

I shut off my phone and set it back on the table. You continued to scratch away at your web, and I laid back down, watching the ceiling for a long time while I tried to block out the pain.

* * *

I bet they planned it all out, like the shows, went everywhere I review.

Next update Sunday


	18. Chapter 18

Wow I finally finished it. I actually feel awesome for getting this chapter done on time. 

Note: There's some French in this one. Most of it's just in little spurts, and Sherlock translates the parts you  _need_  to know, but if you're terribly curious about the rest, you can just Google Translate it or something. Also, if some of the new character's dialogue is a little confusing to read, have no fear! I wrote it like that.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

I woke drenched in a cold sweat, my entire body shuddering from head to foot. White light bathed the room in deep shadows as goosebumps crawled up my arms. My breath came in shallow gulps as the room came into focus. I tried to steady myself, but I had stepped too quickly from a nightmare. My heart pounded in my chest, and my lungs struggled to keep up the pace. I padded down the bed for you, and let out a short hum when I found your arm.

"John?" You whispered, sitting up on your elbows. I leaned over into you, my hand clutched against my chest. Your steady heartbeat helped calm me down. Gently you laid back down, wrapping an arm around my back to keep me close. "Nightmares?"

I nodded.

"Can you breathe?"

"Trying." I squeezed out. "What time is it?"

You glanced over at the clock. "1:15," You murmured. "Try to get some more sleep."

I sighed, loosening my arm away from my chest and keeping it at your waist. The soft whir of the cars outside made for a pleasant white noise as the dreams faded. I took a few deep breaths, while you ran your fingertips along my back, idly pressing your lips to my hair.

Then, a soft creak came from the kitchen. My breath stopped. All my nerves stood on edge. What the bloody hell was that? It didn't sound like the weather. Had I imagined it? Was this another dream? I lifted my head to look at you.

Your eyes were wide and alert, every hint of sleep gone. You had heard it too. Your heart sped up beneath me. I slipped off your chest, and you slowly removed the blankets from your legs, simeultaneously reaching for your bathrobe. Both of us were silent as stone, our eyes glazed, ears pricking for the smallest sound. I sat forward, straining for that creak.

 _Shatter_.

You flew through the hall and into the kitchen, the tail of your bathrobe fluttering behind you. I quickly grabbed the pistol and followed, stumbling into the kitchen just as you crashed into the shelves. A figure shrouded in black jumped away, sprinting for the window before I could take a shot. With a shout, you bolted for him, but he was through the window and off the fire escape. You dipped your long legs through without a second thought.

"Wait, Sherlock, wait!" I cried, shouldering the gun. "What if he's armed?!"

"Call Lestrade!" You shouted back, diving for the fire escape.

The burglar slid down the rest of the metal ladder and made a wild dash down the alley. His feet padded heavily through the fresh snow, making it hard for him to run. Your long legs were his match. He had almost made the opening before you grabbed a hold of his collar. I could hear his shriek from the flat window as you yanked him backwards and sent him sailing into the snow.

He landed with a thud, knocking the window out of him. You approached, but as soon as he caught sight of you, he panicked and sprung to his feet again. You blocked off his exit to the street and backed him against the brick. When he saw he couldn't run, he pulled a small knife and flung himself at you. He got a good swing at you, lightly grazing the skin of your stomach, but then you struck and got a hold of his wrist.

You yanked and threw him into the snow, his arm pinned behind his body. The burglar squacked and started yelling things in French, kicking up snow and trying to squirm, but you pressed your elbow against his shoulder. "Hold still," You hissed.

" _Arrêter! Arrêter! Je suis désolé!_ " He howled. " _S'il vous plaît! S'il vous plaît!_ "

"Stop squirming!" You shouted back. You loosened your grip while you adjusted yourself, and he took the opportunity, landing a swift fist to your nose before you could react. He struggled to his feet, but you tripped him before he could get away. You violently grabbed his arm, wrenching it behind his back.

" _Arrêter_!" He shrieked. " _Arrêter_!"

" _Ne bougez pas!"_  You growled into his ear. " _Cambrioleur_."

* * *

"He's only  _nineteen_ ," Greg said, crossing his arms. He watched our burglar through the window of Scotland Yard, his brow firm. "Name's Favél."

"Surname?" You asked.

"Don't know. Wouldn't say. He has no ID, he's not even from the country. They could barely get anything off him for the police report."

He shuffled through some of the papers, a yawn lingering on his lips. I felt a little guilty that we had woken him so early, but there weren't many Scotland Yard DIs that you would willingly work with. Whenever you weren't looking, he would stretch and briefly close his eyes. Of course, so did I. You seemed to be the only one wide awake and ready to work at 3 o'clock in the morning.

You clapped your hands, knocking both he and I back into focus. "When can I go in."

"Well... I should probably go with you, Sherlock." Greg said, sternly. "He's pretty freaked out already. I don't want you doing anything that could push him too far."

You turned to him. "Are you trying to imply something?"

"I just want to go with you, alright?"

"I'm going to assume that I'm waiting here," I interjected.

"That's probably for the best," Greg nodded. "You can listen, or if you're tired, you can wait outside."

"No, I can listen."

"Whatever you want." He turned back to you. "Do you need-"

"I don't need anything." You started toward the door, and Lestrade stumbled after you.

There was a connection between you and Favél as soon as you walked through the door. Your eyes met his, and they hardly left each other the entire time. I watched Favél's shoulders start to shudder, his skin going at least three shades lighter. Sweat poured from his forehead. There was silence as you and Greg seated, him writing and you puffing up your shoulders and your coat to appear larger. Finally, Greg cleared his throat.

"Mr. Favél, this is Sherlock Holmes," He said, motioning to you. "Private detective."

"Consulting detective." You corrected, not breaking eye contact. "But he knew that. Didn't you?"

The young man swallowed hard. His accent was thick. "Yes, sir."

"Your employer made sure to tell you exactly who I was, didn't she?"

He glanced between you and Greg. "No, sir. Not her. I've heard of you."

"My reputation preceeds me, then."

"You're the man who rose from the dead."

You paused, narrowing your eyes. "Why did you come from France?"

"I was out of work," He answered. "My family is poor, I was a burden  _ma mére_. I thought I could find work in London, but everyone turned me out. I was starving. I took any work I could get." His voice broke. "I didn't want to steal from you. But- She told me to. I couldn't say no."

"You're not really nineteen, are you?" You said.

He froze, then shook his head. "Ah, six...  _Seize_. You know  _seize_?"

You nodded, then turned to Greg. "Sixteen."

"Bloody hell." He wrote it down.

"Where did you meet your employer?" You asked.

"No.  _Le ami_. A second woman. She met me on the street, gave me work." He motioned to his head. "Red hair... Red?  _Rouge_? Red-haired woman."

My whole body went cold. You would never let go of this one.

"What was the second woman's name?" Greg asked.

He shook his head, pressing his lips tight.

You continued. "What were you looking for in our house?"

He shook his head again.

"Favél, we understand that you don't want to get hurt. You're trying to protect yourself," Greg started. "If you-"

"It isn't that." You interrupted. "It's about your family, isn't it?"

He turned away shamefully, and Greg breathed another curse.

"Your employer used your family as a bargaining chip to convince you to do the things you wouldn't have agreed to. You don't want to tell us who or where she is because you fear for your family. But if you do help us, she can't do anything to hurt you or them."

"You don't know her,  _miseur_ ," Favél said softly, his shoulders shaking again. "She is  _un dieu_. She can kill you many other ways than death. She can make you disappear. I've seen her do it. Entire families -  _méres, péres, aussi bébés_  - stolen by her. She drives them mad. Does horrible things. She is an angel of death. She kills you, and withholds death from you, until you burn on earth.  _Douleur. Enfer_."

"I don't understand." Greg said.

He wrung his wrists. "I'm sorry, English is not my language."

"You said that they burn." You leaned back. " _Brûler_? Burn?"

Favél shook his head, his brows furrowing in thought. " _Souffrance_."

"Figurative." You leaned back. "So, she tortures them."

He nodded. "I can't tell you more. She will hear." He looked up at you, his eyes starting to water. "My family."

"There's no way she could hear us in here," Greg affirmed.

Favél looked at him, and he began to shake even more violently. "She is an angel.  _Ange_. The angel of death. She hears everything, she sees everything. We cannot hide anything from her. She is above the law, she is above order, she is above conscious."

"You're not making sense." You stated.

He bit his lip and sat back in his seat. " _Je suis fini_."

"Are you acquainted with the man Jack Argall?" Greg asked.

" _Je suis fini_ ," He repeated.

"What is he saying?" Greg turned to you.

"He says he's done talking." You grumbled, standing from your chair. "We're not going to get anything else out of him. Leave him be."

You abruptly made for the door, leaving Lestrade to scramble for his things and follow you. Favél watched you with a brief look of surprise. Obviously he hadn't realized it would be so easy to refute you. And, frankly, neither did I. I crutched over to meet you by the door, reaching you just as Greg did.

"What was that? We had barely gotten started," He complained, still getting his pages in order.

"I've gotten all I need." You answered, tying your coat.

"We're leaving already?" I asked.

"I've gotten all I need," You echoed.

"He hardly said anything," Greg said, "He just called her an angel."

"An angel of death. Don't you think that's interesting enough to go on?" You turned to face us, your hand clasped under your chin.

"Some kind of cult, maybe?" He wondered.

"No, not a cult. He didn't mean it literally, he doesn't  _actually_  believe she's an angel. He's using figurative language to explain why he can't tell us what we want to know. 'She hears everything, she sees everything.' That's what he said. E has eyes and ears here."

Both Greg and I straightened. "Someone within the Yard?" He exclaimed.

"It's an option." You glanced around the room. "Favél is just a boy. He's worried for his family, yes, but that's not the reason his shoulders shake the way they do. He's not afraid of us, he's afraid of E."

"He seemed pretty afraid of you, too," I stated.

"Slightly, but not as much as he is of her. When he would mention her, the tremors would increase. He had no trouble telling me he was finished. He got frustrated when he couldn't speak correctly. He's much more afraid of E than anything we can do."

"Alright, let's assume that's true. What now?"

"Now, John and I go back to the flat and get a few more hours of sleep." You answered. "Tomorrow I'll come back and gage just how far we can push him and how much he'll be able to tell us. Any information we get from him we can use to coax more out of Jack Argall. Since he was closer to E, he should be able to tell us much more about-"

"...Yeah, you had better not count on that."

You looked at him. "What?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Argall vanished from his cell yesterday. I'm not sure how much of what Favél said was literal, but so far his 'angel of death' has done a pretty good job at the 'disappearing' part."

You straightened, staring blankly at Lestrade. "You let him get away."

"No. He was locked in his holding cell. No one went in or out. The camera in his room cut for ten seconds. None of the other cameras picked him up, anywhere. He  _vanished_."

"Men don't  _vanish_."

"This one did."

You cursed and turned on your heel. "There's a hole in your security somewhere, Lestrade. You had better find it soon." You tied your coat and flipped up the collar. "We're going home, John."

"Wait, Sherlock." Greg stepped forward. "The woman. The girl Favél mentioned. He couldn't have been talking about...?"

"Yes." You kept walking.

* * *

Oh, Mona Lisa, you're guaranteed to review this town.

Mmmm this is where the story gets really fun. The next chapter is one of my favorites and I might be way too excited to go back over it. Look for it on Thursday. (:D)


	19. Chapter 19

Yay okay finally Chapter 19. I don't want to distract from the story. Go ahead. I won't bother you.

* * *

"That didn't prove anything," I stated, crutching through the front door. You put a finger to your mouth and shhed me, reminding me that it was still only four A.M. and we shouldn't be angry with the people who actually got to sleep. But my point remained the same. "There are plenty of red-haired girls in London. Red hair is in style. Red hair is normal."

"But he mentioned it. He didn't say she had green eyes. He said she had red hair." You shot me a look, removing your coat.

"He didn't say Anne, though! He just said red hair."

"How long are you going to deny it? I was right, you were wrong. She's working for E. We have enough evidence now to arrest and question her. If Lestrade wouldn't be so picky about his personal life, we could've closed the case ages ago."

"What if it's  _not_  Anne?"

"It has to be Anne." You sighed. "What you call coincidences, I call facts. Anne gave you the champagne. Anne has been almost everywhere we've been the last two weeks. Anne has been watching us over her shoulder since Lestrade introduced her to us. Now, a witness tells us that a woman with red hair, friend of E, brought him to meet her. How much more evidence do you need?"

"That's not evidence!"

"Not only did he say Anne was her friend, he used _le ami_. Not  _un ami_. He said  _le ami_.  _The_  friend. He made a point of identifying Anne as  _the_  friend. She must be special to her. Almost like Argall was special to her." You tapped your chin. "I wonder, then, if she'd get back into contact if we-"

" _No_ , we're  _not_  taking Anne, or doing anything to Anne." I tapped my crutch. "Anne is honest. She hasn't done anything wrong, to either of us. Why can't you just trust her word?  _Greg's_  word?  _My_  word?"

"Because people make mistakes." You started up the stairs.

"And you're not people?" I called up.

You paused, turning to look at me. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

I sighed, leaning on my crutch and looking up at the looming staircase as you disappeared around the landing. My leg ached just anticipating climbing them. Of course, there was no room to install an elevator, so I grabbed the stair rail with my free hand and began pulling myself up. I saw as I reached the flat that you had cast your coat nonchalantly across my desk and run your face under the water from the tap.

"You get some sleep. I'll be there in a few minutes. I need to adjust my web." You looked over your wall.

"No. I'm not sleeping until we finish this." I leaned on the crutch, and you glared at me.

"You need rest. You're sick."

"Am not." I turned to stand beside you and look at the wall. I saw the photo of Anne (which I had no idea where you had gotten but was not about to ask) and stepped to rip it from its tack. You made a noise of complaint, but didn't stop me when I tore it in two. "You're not going anywhere near Anne. Understood?"

Your arms fell to your sides. "She's a suspect."

"No. She's not."

"It's not a choic-"

"Make it a choice. She's not a suspect." I paused. "Promise you won't go near her."

"I-"

"No. Promise."

"Y-"

" _Promise_  me, Sherlock." I tapped my crutch. "She's a nice girl."

"Obviously not."

"Sherlock."

"Alright, I promise." You picked up the torn photo and pieced it back together. "But I'm keeping her on my board."

"Whatever you want, as long as you keep your promise." I shuffled back toward the bedroom door. "What time are you leaving?"

You glanced at your watch. "In a few hours. Want me to wake you?"

"No, you don't have to. I'm exhausted."

"Then text me when you're awake."

"Okay." I stepped through the bedroom door. "Goodnight."

"Wait."

I turned, leaning on the door. You made steady eye contact.

"Be careful."

"...in the bedroom?"

Your expression didn't change. "John."

I shifted my weight. "Alright, Sherlock, I'll be careful."

"Text often."

"Alright."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight." I shut the door.

* * *

Being honest, I was feeling half-hearted about meeting with Anne that afternoon. I was tired from the last night, a bit nauseous from the new pills, and regardless of my defense to you I was still suspicious of Anne in a little corner of my mind. It would have been easy enough to cancel without seeming rude - claim I wasn't feeling well, or something along those lines - but at the same time, I felt like a sitting duck alone in the flat. Dealing with one variable seemed slightly less dangerous than exposing myself to an unknown number of variables at home.

Thankfully it was a little warmer that afternoon, though the sun turned all the fresh snow to brown slush in the roads. It was a feat to try to avoid the puddles as I got from my cab to the walk, but somehow I made it with only reasonably soaked socks. The meeting place, a little streetcorner café named Sam and Christa's, was filled with people buzzing both in and around the doors. Anne had already secured a table near the window. She sat with her neck stretched out, watching for me.

We made eye contact through the glass, and she waved me inside. As I got closer she rose to hug me. "Hey, John! I'm glad you could make it."

"Yeah, I am too." I sat down and stretched out my leg. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late. It took me some time to hail a cab."

"Oh, it's no problem." She smiled and took her own seat, handing me the menu. "I've already decided, why don't you take a look. Don't worry about the price, it's my treat."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to. Sherlock covered us the last time, I should return the favor."

"Well, thank you." I glanced over the menu. There was not a shred of appetite left in me, but I figured I could stomach a little bit to avoid concern. "Are the salads any good?"

"Those are my favorite, actually. I'm getting the avacado one."

"How about this bean salad?"

"Ooh, that one's good too. Is that what you want? I can go order it for you." She held out her hand for the menu, and I passed it back.

"I can do it myself," I said, starting to stand.

"No, no, you relax. Rest that leg. I'll get it for you." She smiled, turning on her heel and starting for the counter.

There wasn't anything much different about her today than any other day, but I couldn't help but feel a little less than comfortable. It wasn't a surprise, but I didn't like it. She stood waiting beside the counter, fiddling with the fringe of her long knit jumper. Her hair was curled again in long maroon waves. Everything from the heels of her boots to the shade of her eyes seemed perfectly in-place. But something about the way she moved, with just a hint of uncertainty, seemed strange.

She strode back a few minutes later, returning to her chair with a little bounce. "All ordered. They'll bring it out in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Anne." I smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"Of course." She leaned onto her elbows and laced her fingers under her chin. "So, how are things? Has everything with Sherlock been sorted out?"

"Eh, it seems like the more we 'sort out' the more that shows up," I muttered, taking a sip of water.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. There are more important things to worry about than little arguments."

"Yeah, Greg told me about the burglary. Neither of you got hurt, did you?"

"No, we didn't. Sherlock got a few good blows to the face, but nothing serious." I shifted in my seat. "Greg told you about that?"

She nodded, her expression tender. "They caught him, right?"

"Yeah. He's under arrest."

"Good. I'm sorry that had to happen to you. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, we just need to be extra careful to lock things."

"No, I mean, with the stress."

"Oh. Yeah, I think so. It's just a little thing. I think since we caught the burglar it'll be alright."

"You've had a few burglaries lately, haven't you? When you got that nick in your forehead?"

"Yeah, there was that one." I touched my forehead. "But they caught that guy too."

"That's good."

I nodded. "But enough about me, Anne. Let's talk about you."

She chuckled. "We scheduled this so we could talk about you."

"I know. But I don't want this to turn into some kind of therapy session. You get to talk sometimes, too."

"Alright." She smiled. "Whatever you want to talk about."

I brought up travel and university, she brought up crap tele and medical school, and together we made idle small-talk while we waited for our meals. They came within the next few minutes. Although both admitted that we weren't very hungry, we stirred our salads and enjoyed each other's company nonetheless. Her conversation was smooth and interesting. Time passed disregarded, and as the sun marched, the discomfort I felt gradually melted away.

"Y'know, my sister is allergic to avacado," Anne mentioned, looking down at her salad. "Not the really dangerous kind of allergic, just the itchy-coughy kind of allergic. To this day she continues to eat guacamole."

"Really?" I laughed. "Harry does the same thing with strawberry jam."

"She's allergic to strawberries? I've never heard of a strawberry allergy."

"I've never heard of an avacado allergy, either."

She shrugged. "Touché."

I cleaned my hands with my towel and set it on the table. "Are you comfortable talking about your parents?"

"Sure, if you're curious."

"I am, a bit. What line of work is your father in?"

"He's a chemist. Real science-y." She tilted her head. "Why?"

"Just wondering." I reached for my glass again. "You just seem pretty comfortable talking about crime scenes or dating a man with such a high-risk job as Greg."

"Eh, I watched too many horror flicks as a kid." She laughed. "But, what does that have to do with my dad?"

"Nothing, I guess. Sherlock made me read this study a while ago about a child's stress tolerance directly relating to the stress of their parent's profession."

"Well, I don't think that's the case with me."

"I guess not."

Anne swirled her own glass. "You work with Sherlock a lot, don't you?"

"Quite a bit, yeah. I'm his official medical expert, and the guy people talk to when they actually want their emotional boundaries to be considered."

She smiled. "Quite a title."

"It's my pride and joy."

We laughed, and she leaned forward in her chair. "Do you like working with him?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"Most of the time?"

I nodded. "Usually it's great work. Catching criminals, solving puzzles, saving people. It's exciting and for the most part gratifying. But there are some cases that just grate on me. Not all of them turn out well, and some of them just cause more trouble than they fix." I sighed. "The personal ones get tiring, too. Like this one, with the burglary and what happened at Mycroft's."

"Oh, with the fainting? I thought they decided that was mental."

"We still haven't concluded anything. And now there's the burglaries, that may or may not even be related."

"Wow, that's scary to think about."

"Mm-hmm. It's much easier on the nerves to work the case rather than to experience the case. But Sherlock always has enemies. There have to be some of them stupid enough to aim for him through me."

Anne nodded, then paused, her eyebrow crooking. "Wait, what?"

"Sometimes they decide that the best way to hurt Sherlock is to hurt me. Which isn't wrong, but it's a bit obnoxious."

"So you think that someone is messing with  _you_  in order to get to  _Sherlock_?"

"That's usually what happens." I shook my head. "He's the detective, the name in bold print in all the newspapers. Criminals tend to direct their attention toward him whenever they're itching for revenge, but every now-and-again I get the strays. I'm the smaller target, I guess; just the blogger."

"That's not true."

"No, I'm not just saying that to be modest. It's true. Sherlock attracts the attention, not me. And I'm glad for it. I'd rather not be swatting foreign hitmen off my shoulders every few weeks. God knows how long I'd last."

"No, John." She sat forward, looking me dead in the eyes. "I mean it's not true."

"Really, Anne, it's fine." My stomach took a strange turn with her intensity.

Her voice dropped just slightly. "You've got it wrong."

"Wrong?" I repeated, suddenly out of breath.

Shadows started to deepen on the outskirts of my vision. I tried to make sense of Anne, struggling to identify the ominous shudder that was settling in my chest. Or maybe it wasn't just a feeling. My lungs began to tighten. The hairs on my arms stood on end. Something was wrong.

A man now stood above our table, his heavy black coat reaching down to his ankles. His hat covered most of his face, but when I lifted my head up at him, I could see the bright squint of his eyes. The musky smell of a cigarette was still tangled in his clothes. One of his large hands fell on my shoulder, and my heart nearly stopped.

It was Jack Argall.

"You're getting slow, Watson." He smirked.

Blisters of darkness swelled across the room. I felt my body start to sway, only Argall's firm grip keeping me upright.

"Come quietly," Anne whispered, "and we won't have to hurt you."

* * *

You're welcome.

Let me know if you spotted any inconsistencies by the way. I combed through most of it but I didn't have time for nitpicking so I'll correct anything you guys point out. (That's the point of reviews, right? Idk man just wing it)

These reviews won't go away, they've been knocking me sideways

Next update Sunday


	20. Chapter 20

Sorry this didn't make it for Sunday. I was having trouble pounding it out (rough week ya feel) and so I decided to take another rotation to work on it some more. I'm pretty satisfied with it now. I'll try to make up the missing rotation but we'll see how it goes.

Enjoy.

* * *

 

 

The dog.

The dog was barking in the distance. Bright sunlight stung my eyes. I covered them, blinking rapidly to let them adjust.

Hyde Park. The soft warmth of the spring bounced off my skin, radiating off of everything around me. It was just you and I, surrounded by green, seated on a bench with the sound of birds in the trees above us. A smile was written in the curve of your mouth. Your arm draped around my shoulder. The smell of your hair and cologne was sharp and strong against the canvas of the spring, intertwining its fingers with the breeze.

"My behavior last night was uncalled for," You said, your tone disconnected from your gaze. "I had too much to drink and said things I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend you too badly. I'll be more careful."

Gladstone yapped, still far away. A man sat a few meters from us on another bench, with his long black coat tucked neatly underneath him. The sunlight seemed to bend and twist around his shoulders. It was definitely too warm for clothes like that, I decided.

You shifted, running your fingers through my hair. "This needs to be on paper. Running around in Brixton takes its toll. I've run out of nicotine patches. I've used them all up."

The man kicked his foot at Gladdie, who now I could see was barking pointedly at him. The poor dog seemed distraught - alarmed, almost. You tsked, calling the dog back as your arm fell to your side. Gladstone didn't budge.

I noticed the injection marks trailing along the inside of your arm. Fresh.

"I didn't do it because I was angry, John," You said, quietly. "I was exhausted. I wanted to be able to help you, but I couldn't. You have to understand, John. I didn't do it because I was unhappy."

You shouted, trotting over to collect Gladstone. The man looked put off, even after you apologized. He reached into the pocket of his coat, producing a knife.

* * *

 

Ringing split my skull as white light washed across my line of vision. Everything around me was swirling in an nauseating blur of whites and greys. Padding rolled beneath me. A bed? Yes. Pillow. Sheets. I twisted my fingers in them, pulling myself back into reality. Eventually the room's sharp corners stilled, and I blinked and looked around.

Whiteness was everywhere. The walls, the floors, the ceiling, and the sparse furniture were all white. A single white door stood directly across the room. In the far right-hand corner, a small black camera peered at me. Besides that, I was the only decoration in the whole place, like a speck of pale paint on a blank page.

My head pounded and my leg throbbed. I couldn't remember anything past Anne. We had met in the café, we had spoken, and then there was a shadow. There was a foggy memory of Argall, but it was distorted by the pain in my temples. Reaching up, I rubbed against my forehead with the heel of my hand. My shoulder groaned with the movement; that and the discomfort in my ankles made me suspect I had been dragged at least part of the way. But... where was I now?

I couldn't help but notice how similar this room looked to the rooms of the suicide ward. It had the right dimensions, even the bed was a similar style. It wasn't the ward, though. Why would Anne have put in the time and effort to kidnap me just to take me there? And what did Argall have to do with the ward? It didn't make sense. It couldn't be the ward. Of course, nothing in the last few hours made sense. Trying to make it make sense only made it make less sense. I wasn't going to get anywhere sitting there being confused, so I decided to make myself known.

"Hello?" I called.

No one answered me, so I tried again.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" I shouted.

The crackling of a microphone echoed through the room. A short hum greeted me. Noticeably feminine, noticably French. "Good evening, John. I hope you slept well."

I stared up at the camera. It was easy enough to tell that it was where the voice was coming from, but I didn't recognize it. "Who is that?"

"Don't be rude," She kept on, "I know you and your fiancé must've discussed me at least once or twice."

E. The mysterious mastermind. It had to be her. I hadn't expected her to be French, that was what threw me off. It fit now. Anne was working for E. She lured me out into Camden so that she and Argall could nab me while I was off my guard. Were we still in Camden, then? or had they gotten me out of London? or had they got me out of the country entirely?

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You're in a little white room. I thought that much would be obvious. But, don't worry, this isn't the ward." She paused. I thought I could hear the faint rolling of a chair in the background. "I had them pad everything down because I thought it would be a shame if you killed or mutilated yourself before the proper time; I know you have history, so we're playing it safe."

I lost my breath. Something about people going through my medical files just irks me. I got off the bed (trying my hardest not to limp too badly) and kept watching the camera as if it was her face. "You had better let me out of here. When Sherlock-"

"-finds out you're missing he won't stop for breath until you're found? Yes, I know. I've been informed of your fiancé's particular talents, and frankly I'm not interested." She sighed, or yawned, I couldn't tell which. "I warned him when he seized my man Argall that I would have retribution.  Mr. Holmes didn't hesitate to put a bullet through Argall's leg. I was thinking an eye for an eye?"

My blood went cold.

"Yes, that's exactly what I wanted. Hold that face for a few more seconds. Good."

I swallowed, knitting my eyebrows firmly together. My voice was much less assertive this time. "It's about Sherlock, then," I said, feeling slightly relieved that at least that part of the puzzle was relatively simple.

"In part," She answered.

"And the other part?"

E chuckled. "Mr. Holmes has left his mark. It's all business, John. You should know enough about that. My instructions are to make you suffer, and so suffer you shall. There's nothing I want from you."

"There has to be something," I said, "There has to be a reason."

"There is. Not one that you need to be concerned with, mind you. All you need to know is that Sherlock made me angry. Don't make the same mistake."

The door clunked and swung open. Argall stood in the doorway, dark-clad as before, brandishing a wooden club-like rod beside his thigh. I jumped away from him, retreating into the corner of the room farthest from him.

"I only thought it appropriate to have him do the honors." E continued, nonchalant. "You will comply with him. If he says on your knees, you're on your knees. If he says on your feet, you're on your feet. If he says take off your clothes, your clothes come off. Hesitation, and I might just reconsider letting him shoot you through the knee to see how you fare."

My heart raced, watching Argall in the doorway and hearing E's soothing, malign voice bounce between the walls. "No, stop it," I croaked, my voice suddenly falling through. I glanced wide-eyed at the camera and its little flashing light. "Alright? Alright- Stop. You can't do this."

"Sorry, John. Your life is not your hands anymore, it is in mine; it has been for quite some time, and you should submit to that reality quickly, for your own good. It's all about the big money, Dr. Watson, and in this business, your name is gold."

Argall approached, swinging his rod, and I shrunk.

"We need to make you look like you feel. How do you feel, John?" E asked.

I gasped. "For Christ's sake, call him off!"

"Goodnight, John." The microphone cut.

* * *

 

Argall didn't hit me the way I'd been hit before. He loomed above me, his rod clenched in his hand, with a glare powerful enough to piece flesh. I pressed myself into the corner of the room and watched as he gripped the weapon like a bat, his muscles contracting and rippling beneath his skin. My mind went into hyperdrive. Fight-or-flight imploded on itself. He coiled his bones until they burst. Wood collided with flesh. Its impact threw me on my face, groaning in pain and shivering with fright.

I knew what he was doing; he was trying to intimidate me, to get the high ground and make me whimper. It was working. He broadened his shoulders, and I crumbled beneath him. I could see his every tendon, but seeing did nothing to protect me. Every single nerve stood on end, absorbing his every motion, bending as his rod came crashing back. There was nowhere to run to, no way to defend myself. He was the ocean crashing against me, throwing me side to side, sucking the air from my lungs.

He kept at me until my arms were various colors of purple, yellow, and blue. I felt my bones ache, salty sweat pouring off my forehead as I collapsed, my legs pulled close for fear he would snap them in half. But he had finished. His club swung near his ankle.

"I'll be back, Watson." Argall growled. He then turned and strode back through the door, closing it behind him with a large clang as the metal latch met its lock.

I wheezed, laughing and sobbing with pain. It was so intense and sporadic my brain was confused as to how to interpret it. I had to pull myself together. I wasn't supposed to let E get the best of me. I had to keep up a strong front. I had to be _un_ breakable. But _Christ_ my arms hurt.

Crawling toward the cot, I bit my lip against my throbbing limbs and pulled myself up. Once there, I pressed my face against the pillowcase and released a long, moaning cry. Everything I could feel hurt. I could hardly think while the blind adrenaline wore off, replaced by an empty ache. But I had to assess. I was a doctor: I had to assess.

My leg was the least of my problems. My stomach, empty, folded painfully. My arms looked almost green in the pale lighting. My head and jaw thundered from being thrown. My throat closed up with stress, lungs beginning to fail as I felt another attack beginning to creep up my spine.

I curled my legs against my stomach and faced away from the camera, focusing on breathing and calming myself down. Angry tears stung at my eyes. I was completely helpless here, isolated, in agony, crushed under the thumb of an unnamed, faceless woman. I needed to get out. I needed to sleep. I needed to eat. I needed not to be in pain. I needed so many things, I didn't know what I needed. But I knew I needed you.

I tried to clear my head by blocking out everything except for you. I knew you would be looking for me. I knew you would find me. You were Sherlock Holmes, for Christ's sake. Nothing is impossible for you. That was all I needed to know - you were coming, and you needed me to be strong. I would be strong for you. That much I could do.

Time stretched out, unnoticed. Eventually I got up and paced around a few times. My arms had gone numb, their blues and purples deepening progressively. The rest of me still hurt, but it was getting better, and I needed to occupy myself or else I was afraid my heart would stop cold in my chest. For sure I would go crazy if I just laid there until you showed up.

A man with scraggly hair came into the room a while later, carrying a tray with three small butties, a bottle of water, and a bowl of yellowish soup that smelled like chicken and strong garlic. The man didn't try to approach me, he only set the little tray on the ground in front of me and mentioned not to worry about drugs. Regardless, I didn't touch any of it.

Staring at the soup made me notice how sore my throat was, and how chapped my lips had become in the dry little room. I looked from the food up at the camera. They didn't want me dead, right? So they wouldn't try to kill me. I'm already here, they wouldn't need to drug me. I should might as well try to stay alive until you got there, and I wouldn't be alive much longer if I refused to eat anything for fear of drugs.

The seal on the water bottle was unbroken, which made me feel much better. I immediately opened it and drank, relieving my throat, then picked up a butty. There was nothing on the inside of the bun, or on the lettuce, or the cheese, but I gave it a few sniffs just to make sure. Then I popped a small piece into my mouth. Then a bigger piece. I made sure the camera had full view of me, of course, using the food as some sort of small mental leverage over E. I would wait for you.

I hoped you were safe, that nothing had happened to you, or that you hadn't done anything too unbelievably stupid. Lestrade would keep an eye on you, wouldn't he? My gloom lifted a little, imagining him roping you in from some crazy scheme you had worked up. I got up, having eaten all my anxious stomach could handle, and crawled again onto the cot.

At first I laid on my side, then in favor of my arm I twisted on my back, closing my eyes to get the whitewashed walls out of my head. The adrenaline had faded by now, and my meal made me a bit sleepy. But within thirty seconds of laying down, the lights of the room went out, plunging the room into darkness. A shiver washed over me and I turned back onto my side, squeezing my eyes tightly against the flash of that little red bulb.

* * *

You know to keep your hopes up high and your reviews down low.

Next update Sunday (crossed fingers)


	21. Chapter 21

I tried to get two chapters in but I just couldn't make it. I'll see if I can do it by Thursday.

Embark.

* * *

Before going to Afghanistan, I had recieved torture training, just like any soldier. I learned methods of physical preparation and mental separation techniques for different situations, both of which would do me plenty of good in my current predicament. However, those valuable memories were now faded and worthless. I had never been taken hostage or tortured while in Afghanistan, therefore I had no experience to speak of. My memory of the training itself wasn't superb in the first place. There had been little reason to refresh myself. Plus, my head was still muddled up from everything that'd happened within the last day. Bloody marvelous. I couldn't even think straight, much less recall my military training from nearly ten years ago.

Frustrated, I paced around the room and resigned to trying to keep myself occupied. I had a better recollection of the café scene now, so that was an option. I didn't want to work myself up, though, so I looked for something else. I tried to focus on thinking about you again, but I had remembered how much danger you would be in if you tried to find or rescue me. It made me slightly sick, so I gave up on that, too.

There was literally and absolutely nothing to do inside the room, either. The padding on the ceiling was large and square, so there were only eight little corners - not enough to constantly count. The whole room was white, save my jumper, trousers, and shoes. They hadn't changed my clothes, which I found odd, but they had snipped off the tags and clipped any loose seams, which I also found odd. Wasn't enough to hold my attention, though. I kept pacing.

My ankles and arms groaned with pain after a while, finally realizing what Argall had done to them. I sat down on my cot to stretch, and hesitated getting up.

Was I supposed to keep my self awake? or was I supposed to sleep? I was upset that even  _that_  I couldn't remember. It would be useful, I reminded myself begrudgingly. But regardless, I was still avoiding sleep. Earlier when I had tried, I had woken not too long afterward, shaken by vivid nightmares that had turned my stomach more than normal. I didn't really want to be sick in this tiny room. I stayed awake.

No one could stay awake forever, though, especially when locked away in a cage. My emotions began to bubble over, making me miserable. I was angry one moment, relaxed the next, and nearly in tears following. I ran out of acceptable topics of thought as time dragged on, and the cycle intensified. My senses were useless and my limbs were half-numb with pain. No noise came from anywhere. I felt dead.

Argall returned twice more within that time, with his stick at his side. He used the same approach each time, hovering over me for agonizing seconds while I braced myself for impact, finally crumbling to the floor as his club struck. The bruises that formed on my arms, legs, and chest only helped to heighten the excruciting pain rippling though me. He clipped his weapon too close to my shoulder and swept across my temple, knocking me out cold.

The same dream continued to replay, never truly reaching resolution any time. You and I, in the park, with Gladstone and the man in the long black coat. Sometimes I sat on the bench with you, and other times I stood some distance away, surveying and floating like some kind of ghost. The dog always noticed him first, the man. He sniffed the ankle of his trousers and bared his teeth.

You didn't suspect the man at all as you approached. You seemed annoyed with Gladdie, and I could almost hear you curse and call him a name. Sometimes you picked him up, sometimes you only put your hand on his back. But either way, the man wasn't at all happy with you. He always pulled the knife. Why? You hardly even noticed him. Why would he pull the knife?

I came to my conclusion while floating close to you, studying the precise moment of time when he reached for the knife. You had turned, unnaturally frozen, and I could see the small spark of horror in your eyes. Glancing then at the cloaked man, his face was hard to see, but the curve of his eyebrow told me anger. The anger of a man being yapped at by a dog? The anger of a man whose cover had been blown by this yapping dog?

But who was this man? Why did he pull the knife on you?

Stepping back, I let the rest of the dream roll on. He jumps on you, throws the dog off. Drives the knife into your stomach. You recoil, stepping back, hands to your abdomen. He grabs your hair, yanking your neck tight and slashing the knife. Blood spills out across the pavement and the grass. The dream-state me rushes over and throws myself into the man, but he's nearly twice my size, three times my strength. He continues to stab at your chest while I shriek, pounding on his back.

Pause again. I leaned over to look at the man's face. Now, he's distinctively Argall. That part made sense. But why would he so ruthlessly murder you? Maybe I had been right - you had seen his face, and therefore blown his cover.

I tried to channel my inner Sherlock, and soon enough, you were standing beside me, a ghost yourself, stepping around the three dream-states in your peculiar kind of way. "Five puncture wounds so far, one major cut to the throat. Already dead by now. Cause of death, blood loss." You pulled out your small magnifying glass, peering closely at the wound on your dream-state neck, then at Argall's knife. "He's had the same knife since Afghanistan. Look at the stains in the handle, the way his hand has rubbed such defined grooves into the leather."

"Why was he here? Why did he jump you?" I asked.

"I was hoping you would know the answer to that," You replied, straightening.

"Why am I here?" I continued.

"I'm pretty sure I had something to do with that," Anne said, stepping into view.

I was too tired to wonder where she had come from. "Anne."

"Hello, John," She said, her smile just as sweet.

"Why did you do that to me, Anne?" I asked, pleading.

"Maybe you didn't know me as well as you thought you did," She answered. Her green eyes glowed red, and a forked tongue shot out from between her teeth. "John."

I panicked, running from her and toward you. You spread your arms to catch me. But as I got closer, you disappeared into dust.

Suddenly, I was standing before Bart's, my cold mobile pressed against my ear. Your voice echoed. " _It's a trick. Just a magic trick_." I choked out words back to you, but I couldn't hear them. You fell, your legs and arms moving with the currents, air whipping through your dark curls. Blood across the pavement. The sharp collision of a bike with my side. Yelling, crying, screaming, cursing, reaching out to touch your hair one last time. I felt a slither, like the tail of a scaly beast running up my spine, escaping just beyond the edge of my vision.

The street melted away, reshaping to form the ugly walls of the suicide ward. They closed in around me like chains, immediately launching me into hysterics. I pressed myself into the corner, violently shaking, and screamed for someone, anyone, just to answer me. I yanked out clumps of my hair and scratched deep scars into my face with trembling hands. Invisible spiders ran underneath my skin, and my heart threatened to explode out of my chest. I kept screaming.

I woke on my cot in the bleach white room. The holding room. Not the ward.  _Not the ward_. My stomach gave a lurch. I had been dreaming.

My eyes were dry, my face wet, my chest tight and sore. As I started to calm down, the muscles in my stomach relaxed, then sharply tightened again, spilling its contents across the floor. So much for not being sick. Dizziness and vertigo threatened to throw me down into the middle of it, but I gripped the edge of the bed and pushed myself back.

This wasn't poison. This couldn't have been poison. This was too real. This was too me.

What was happening to me?

* * *

I was being carved. I was a pumpkin on Halloween-eve, I decided. My insides were being cut out of me, my mind scooped out and thrown away with the rubbish, replaced with a tiny little candle, burning as much as it illuminated. I could no longer pace in a straight line. My legs and ankles stung with every step, the crusty blood in my socks stratching at my skin. My entire body shook with such ferocity that I was worried I would have a seizure.

Whenever I tried to eat, I ended up huddling under E's red bulb and vomitting it all up. I had earlier decided it wasn't worth it, and I stopped eating. But Argall had a field day and  _forced_  scalding soup down my throat until I coughed it back out all over him. I ate what they brought me after that, and dealt with the vomitting alone.

E never spoke to me again.

I had experienced hallucinations before, but never so intense as then. Sometimes the room would rise or drop suddenly and leave me disoriented. Other times I would feel as if I was spinning. Colors and dots swam along the walls. I was convinced I could hear the faint bass notes of a cello, even though I knew the walls were soundproof.

There was one hallucination, however, that was stranger than any of the others. In random instances, I would get a blood-curdling sensation of being in immediate danger, and I  _knew_  that a beast lay just beyond my sight. Behind me, beside me, above me, below me,  _somewhere_  it was hiding. I knew exactly what it looked like, even though I never saw it - its mouth, full of sharp teeth, and its long, snake-like body. I could feel it graze past my skin, coil around my chest, and squeeze.

It felt like all my fear, all my anxiety, and all my stress had been pressed into the scales of this huge creature, its slimy exterior rubbing against my heart and through my throat, its tongue just beginning to tease my eyes. I could smell its breath, twisting my stomach into knots. Its claws ripped into my chest, tearing open my lungs. It wasn't real, but it was dangerous.

I kept pacing, standing, or gently addressing my wounds, avoiding sleep and acute thought all the same. I would shout if I needed to, and I would cry if I needed to - I was past the point of keeping up a strong front. I was conscerned now with staying sane, not with keeping up appearances.

They were right. My mind was failing me. And it wasn't the room that made me think such - it just took the room for me to realize it. They had been right all along. I did need help. I couldn't handle myself, or my emotions; all I could do was look for distractions. All I could do was  _distract_  myself from the reality that  _I can't do it_. All my life, all I had done was look for distractions. Distractions from my dull parents, distractions from my dull sister, distractions from my dull life, distractions from myself.

I hated myself. I hated my distractions. I hated that I couldn't handle myself like an adult. I hated that I didn't listen to you. I hated that I wasn't smart enough to recognize danger. I hated that I was idiotic enough to think that I was. I hated that I was helpless. I hated my every thought and word. I hated myself.

* * *

Argall watched me with a steel gaze, his brow drawn up tight. He rolled what looked like a wooden spear in his hand. It was shadowed, stained with a dark brown pigment, with a leather handle and wrist strap tightened around his muscled hand. Its edge was sharpened to a sickle-like point. I could only imagine what kind of damage it could have done.

"Up, Watson." He growled.

I sat on my cot with my back pressed against the wall, sleepy, all energy having been drained out of my by what seemed like days spent without sleep. He had no sympathy, and grabbed me by the sweaty collar of my jumper, yanking me off.

" _Get up_."

His upper lip curled in disgust as I groaned on the floor, cradling my head. Swiftly he grabbed me by the hair, causing me to shriek.

"On your feet."

I clenched my teeth and answered him, pushing myself up on shaking legs. My eyes wouldn't leave the point of his blade. Was he going to kill me?

Argall swung, connecting the blade to the flesh of my arm. This pain was different than the pain of the club - it was more distinct, and more terrifying, because I knew what a sharp edge could do to blood vessels, and just how quickly I could die. He continued to swing, cutting through my jumper, blood trickling through my clothes. I cried out, pushing my hands out to stop him with no success.

This time, though, after four or five blows, he straightened and let his blade fall to his side. "Up."

I sunk farther into the padding of the wall, now stained with blood.

"Get  _up_. You're coming with me." He said, smoothing his hair back into place.

"What?" I croaked.

"You heard me. You're coming with me. And if I were you, I'd come easily."

I gathered up the remainder of my adrenaline-crazed strength and spat, "You're  _fucking not_."

To this, he replied with a swift kick to the stomach. I coughed up vomit and blood, and he gripped another handful of my hair, pulling my eyes to meet his.

"You can walk," He purred, "or I can drag your limp corpse. Your choice."

* * *

The stink of blood and leather surrounded me as consciousness passed in and out of my reach. Argall had "escorted" me through a series of white halls and loaded me into the back seat of a small car (or, rather, the floor of the back seat). Everything was dark for a long time, the car windows having been blackened with paint. I laid with my head near Argall's feet. If I tried to make a sound, he would press his heel against my windpipe until I either stopped crying or passed out.

Just as my blood had started to dry and cake on the carpeting, the car stopped. It was only a brief stop, however. Argall kicked open the door and dragged me out by the arms. I was too dizzy and disoriented to wrestle with him. The ground was no comfort as it came, slamming against my chest and head, taking my breath away. Chilly wind hit the back of my neck, turning my sweat to ice. A distorted shadow of Argall climbed back into the vehicle and disappeared into the street.

Blaring horns and shouting people stirred me from my daze. I opened my eyes to the vast whiteness and looked around. A moderately sized crowd had already begun to enclose me. Their faces, twisted and pale, peered down at me from all sides. I pushed to my feet, ignoring the help of strangers, and stumbled through the crowd.  _People_  overwhelmed me. So much noise, so much color and movement.

Your voice shot out like a siren in the dark, one tiny whisper of familiarity in a swirling sea. You were calling my name, but I didn't know where you were. I kept pushing, kept trying to run, but I stumbled and fell back onto my bloodstained hands.

I could feel the dragon pursuing me, trodding just behind the footsteps of the crowd. I could see the flick of his tail, hear the soft prod of its paws on the pavement, taste its saliva mix in with the snow. The heat of its breath was sharp and terrifying against the back of my neck.

A firm set of hands found my shoulders, holding me still, patting down my arms and chest. I yelled and flung myself away from him, batting my arms wildly, but he caught me and eased me down to the ground. The man looked directly into my eyes. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear him. Lestrade? Was that Lestrade? It was like a lightswitch had gone off inside my head.  _London. London. Lestrade. Lestrade._

Tears poured down my face, but no sound came from my mouth. I sank to my knees, gripping Lestrade's shoulders as firmly as he held mine. I laid my head against his chest, shaking with cold and pain as my wounds began to sting.

Someone else came too, grabbing me away from Lestrade and holding my head against the collar of his coat. It was you.  _It was you_. Your hair flushed with mine, and though I couldn't understand your words, I could hear your thick emotion, feel the vibrations in your chest, feel the panic in the tips of your fingers, the sway of your body as you rocked me back and forth.  _You. You. You._

* * *

The ambulance came minutes later, its sirens drilling nails into my head. A sedative was quickly administered.

* * *

They tried to keep me under while they stitched me up, but a few times I had fluttered back to life. Pain and panic dug their nails into me, and I clung tightly to you, weeping into the fabric of your shirt. You whispered to me, and played with my hair.

* * *

You never left. Even at night, even in the day, even when the nurses would change my bandages or check my temperature. You laid beside me, your hands brushing gently against the broken skin of my arm. Your warmth, surrounding me. The smell of your hair, the taste of your lips.

* * *

"I didn't do it because I was angry, John."

Slowly, I started to remember. The night that your violin lulled me to sleep. I hadn't remembered you moving me, but now I did. You had waited until the end of the stanza, then set your instrument down and slipped your arm under my legs, the other under my shoulders. I was only barely awake, but I could feel the soft texture of your shirt against my cheek, and the strong scent of your cologne in my mouth. You laid me down on our bed, taking the time to pull off my shoes and cardigan.

"I did it because I was exhausted." You were whispering, sitting by my leg. "I did it because I wanted to be able to help you, and I couldn't. You have to understand, John... I didn't do it to spite you, or to get back at you. I didn't do it because I was unhappy. It was because you were, and I, with all my talents, could do nothing for you."

You sighed, your voice wavering, head bent down. "I'm sorry I've caused you more grief. I'm trying, John. I'm honestly, honestly trying."

Your lips brushed against my forehead, and you fixed my hair back.

"I love you, John," You breathed.

* * *

Eyes on fire, your spine is ablaze. Felling any foe with my review.

Next update Thursday.


	22. Chapter 22

So uh I've been having some trouble with this chapter. I've been working on it since last Thursday (and it's a good thing too because if I hadn't it would be ten times worse) but I still feel shitty about it. So let me know how it reads. Make me cry if you have to. At this point I deserve it kinda. But for now I'm going to put some space between me and this goddamn thingy.

In other news, you also need to let me know what your reaction was. Did you call it? If so, you deserve a prize. Treat yourself to a bubble bath or something.

Enjoy.

* * *

"Let's go through the case file one more time before John wakes up." Lestrade's voice. The smell of paper, and faint crackling sounds of them being maneuvered. You sighed. I felt the pressure release from your chest, brushing past my hair. "Thanks. I just want to make sure I've got everything. Start from the beginning? The café?"

"Mm, fine." Your voice vibrated against my ear. "John arrived at the designated café,  _Sam and Christa's_ , at 12:39 P.M., Friday, December 27th. He allegedly met with Ms. Anne Whitefield, though she has yet to admit to the event. At 1:19 P.M., John was recorded by an outdoor security camera nearby to be taken from the café and loaded into a small, black 2008 Cadillac. The car travelled west."

"Why do you think it was Anne?"

"The camera picked her up."

"The woman in the video could've been anyone."

"It was Anne. Tuft of red hair near the collar. Height, weight, frame, movements. It was definitely Anne." You huffed, shifting a little and running your hand along my back. "If the camera doesn't convince you, the napkin should. When Anne had eaten with us she re-folded her napkin twice. Using that bit of information the table that she occupied was easy to identify. The scuff marks on the café floor matched the brand of John's shoes and showed him being quickly ushered out of the restauraunt, half-walking, half-dragged, most likely under the influence of a drug."

More page-turning. "Explain the parking garage."

"We traced the car to a parking garage in Newham. There we found two sets of footsteps. One was a woman's, assumed to be Anne Whitefield's. The other, a man's, 6'5, heavy build, wide gait. He had been carrying John. The trail seemed to shuffle around quite a bit between the vehicle and the elevator to the street, which I found peculiar. The woman's footsteps went off in a different directon than the man's. The man took the elevator down to the street and escaped with John, while the woman found a different car in the garage and disappeared."

"Any camera footage?"

"Hardly. All the cameras froze at 5:30 A.M., and no one noticed until we showed up to inspect them. No help to us."

"What about deductions about the car? The one that brought John from Camden to Newham."

"Stolen. Driven by the man. In the rear part of the car, John's mobile phone had fallen and been pushed under the rear seat. I caught sight of it through the window. The owner was Roger Stenley, uninvolved with the case and oblivious to the fact that his car had been compromised. He had been having sex with his secretary at the time of the kidnapping. The car made frequent trips between Stenley's house in the suburbs and his office building in Newham. The level of gas left in the tank matched the distance between Camden and Newham."

"Alright. Anything else you can tell me?"

"Not much. We've exhausted most of our other sources. Questioning Anne Whitefield would reveal the identity of the man she was accompanied by, but I've been told by the detective inspector assigned to the case that she was off-limits to amateurs."

"I think that man deserves a raise." Lestrade tutted, folding his papers again. "Alright, Sherlock. I'll submit the report. Give me a ring when John wakes up, I still have questions for him."

"Fine."

The creak of a chair. Greg gently patted my shoulder, then went out toward the door, shutting it behind him with a resounding click.

You sighed again, moving your hand up to my shoulder. "How did you sleep?"

I stretched, my whole body aching. "How did you know I was awake?"

"Did you hear the whole conversation?"

"Most of it, I think." I put a hand on my forehead. "How long have I been out?"

"Just for the night. It's half-past nine now. How are you feeling?"

"A bit dazed. My back hurts."

"The muscle or the skin?"

"Both," I groaned, letting my head sag against your shoulder. "How are the wounds?"

"There won't be any permanent damage."

"That's good." I yawned.

"Are you feeling well enough to answer questions?"

"Mmh. I'm so tired. I don't want to talk to Lestrade right now."

"How about your brother-in-law, then."

I flinched upon hearing Mycroft's voice behind me. I should've assumed he'd be around. With a huff I eased myself over to look at him. He smirked a little at my surprise, meddling with his grey suit and black umbrella leaned against his chair. His small eyes went across my length with his signature Holmes look; searching for a problem. Ultimately they settled back to mine.

"Hello, Mycroft," I muttered. "I didn't realize you were here."

"That's understandable." He bobbed his leg. "If you've been awake for as long as I think you have, you should already be aware that-"

"Anne." My chest tightened as I said her name. My memories of her all came flooding back at once, and I realized both her position and my own. She was in danger; I was absolutely sure of it. Fight-or-flight took over me, twisting my fingers into the sheets. I looked up at your brother. "Where is Anne."

Both of you straightened your shoulders, like cats arching their backs in response to a threat. Your eyes met. "Whitefield?" Mycroft asked, smoothly. He adjusted himself in his seat, both trying to cover up his aggrivation and to show it. "I do believe she's still occupied in her apartment in Greenwich. Greg's been putting off issuing an arrest warrant, but if he hears from you-"

"No. Neither of you touch her. _I_  want to see her." I started to sit up, but the room spun with the stress. A curl of nausea settled in my stomach. I braced myself on the arm of the bed.

"She's a  _suspect_ ," You protested. "She's dangerous. She's not coming anywhere near you."

"I  _want_  to see her."

"Why don't you explain to us the role she had in your abduction, and then-"

"No. I want to see her now." My heart monitor had begun to beep faster. "I want to talk to her. Not as an arrestee, just... her. Bring her here, let me talk to her."

"Relax," You warned, running your hand along the curve of my back. Your cool hand helped my nausea for the time, but as it started to return I leaned back against your chest, and your hand rested at my waist. "John. We realize that you are still recovering. But try to be rational. We need you to tell us what happened to you, so that we can keep you safe."

"I'm not going to tell you anything until I see her," I kept on. Mycroft's gaze darkened, and I felt an irritated tick in your fingers. "I don't care if you both think I'm raving lunatic, and I don't care if I am one. It's not a request. Bring her here. Tell her I want to talk to her. And make sure she knows that you're  _not_  going to arrest her." I looked directly at Mycroft as I said this, my stomach twisting. "You're  _not_  going to hurt her."

He began. "It would be impossible f-"

I lurched over the arm of the hospital bed and spewed up a bucket's worth of yellow liquid, the stuff pouring out my mouth and nose and splattering all over the tile floor. Mycroft quickly scutted his chair back, but his shoes were already speckled, and there wasn't much he could do for his trouser cuffs. You and he exchanged glances again as I came down, collapsing back against the pillows.

"You're quite the hastle, aren't you, John," Mycroft sighed.

* * *

Anne looked nothing like the Anne from before. Her skin was pale, fading to purple around her eyes and cracking at her lips. An oversized sweater hung off her shoulders, draping over her hips and wrists, while her hair had been sloppily tied back into a braid with various tendrils escaping still. It surprised me. And evidently I surprised her, as well. Her eyes widened as she came through the door, glancing over me and all my bandages and tubes. She seemed to think twice about entering, but eventually slid from the door into the guest chair.

"Anne," You muttered, your voice dark.

"Hello, Sherlock." She replied. "John."

Our eyes met. Her whole face glistened with shame.

You were utterly convinced that she was a villain; some malicious, deceptive woman, who had been planning to lure me into danger from the very start. I, however, knew there was something in your puzzle that didn't fit. All your  _theories_  fit, perfectly so. The champagne, the dinner, the interest, the intentions, they were all plausible and whole. The only thing that didn't fit was  _Anne_. She might have been deceptive, yes, but her eyes convinced me. You were good at reading people, but I was good at seeing people. Her gaze at the flat, her gaze at the café, and her gaze in that moment, fixed with mine, was anything but malicious.

"Tell me." I said, softly.

She flickered, lips curving down. "I'm sorry. "

"The café," I continued. "What happened at the café."

She didn't speak.

"Anne, I  _need_  to know."

"I want you to know, John." She stated. "I want to tell you. But as much as I want to, I can't."

"Why?"

"Because, John." She glanced quickly over her shoulder, then pulled her chair forward. "There's much more at stake here than just your trust."

"Trust isn't an option anymore." You bit.

Her eyes flashed bitterly at you.

"You don't have to tell us everything. Just tell us what you can," I said. "Skirt around the things you can't."

"John!" You snapped.

"Shut  _up_." I turned to glare at you.

Anne cleared her throat and wetted her lips with her tongue. "...If you swear -  _swear_ , Sherlock - that you won't go near this, I can tell you what happened at the café."

"We can work with that," I answered, before you could interject.

You grumbled and resigned. "But first, tell us who you are."

She nodded. "I'm a surveillance agent. Well, at the moment, I am." She busied her hands with her hair. "My birth name is Adrianne Carter, I go by Anne. I was born in the United States and worked with the CIA for a time as a covert operations agent. After resigning, I relocated to Wales, and for the last several years I've been doing private work."

"Your current client is E," You said.

"Yes. My instructions were to gather intelligence on Dr. Watson and to build a relationship with him in order to monitor his health and status. Lestrade gave me easy access. I was informed at the beginning that it might be necessary to bring John in, so I prepared myself for the possibility."

I sat back into your shoulder. Hearing it from Anne's own mouth made it seem much more real.

She saw my reaction. "Sorry."

"When you received the order, you arranged for him to meet you in Camden." You filled in. "Away from me."

"Yes," She started.

"Then you drugged him and, with the help of your accomplice, loaded him into the back of a stolen car."

"Yes, b-"

" _Then_  you rendezvoused with another car and had him delivered directly to E."

Anne flexed her jaw. "No."

"No?" I repeated.

"That's not what happened. If you'd let me explain," She glared, "you would know that already."

"Well if-"

I elbowed your stomach, and you went quiet. "Go ahead, Anne."

She looked between us, then settled on me. "E wanted eyes and ears on you at all times. She wanted to make sure you didn't go anywhere or do anything that might've interrupted her plans. She arranged for that French kid to plant cameras, and had a car follow you whenever you went out. But eventually, just watching you wasn't enough. Argall and Conrad were assigned to abduct you the day before Christmas, but you got away that time. So, logically, it was my turn."

I could feel the heat of rage on your skin. In a low, clear voice, you asked, "What is this about, then. What is her goal. Why is she doing this. Is it me she wants?"

Anne shook her head. "She doesn't care about you. She only cares about John. You, Sherlock, you're just an obstacle. A challenge."

"But..." I shifted. "Why would she be targeting me? What have I done?"

"It's not something  _you've_  done, John. You're not the target, you're the leverage."

"Leverage? Leverage for what?"

She fiddled with her hair.

"If it's not about Sherlock, then who the else would I be leverage for?" I asked, slightly louder.

You answered for her. "Your parents."

Her expression changed, and she nodded.

"Why hadn't I thought of that sooner," You muttered. "Your parents have obviously stumbled onto some sort of sour business relationship or something of that nature. You told me that their business had been flourishing as-of-late, right?"

"Well, yes..." The gears in my head turned. "But... What could they..."

"Am I correct, Anne?" You asked.

She was soft. "Yes."

"But why would they-"

"I don't know everything about the situation between them. I'm assigned to E, and that business is her supervisor's. But I do know that it must be extremely important to both of them, and that they've gone without a settlement for months now. The supervisor has gotten restless, and he's gotten angry. He assigned E to make you miserable, and so far it's been working. In part, that's my fault, and I'm sorry. But I want to make things right.

"As I worked the case, and got to know you, John, I realized that you weren't the perverse son of some drug-lord. You were nothing but an innocent bystander to this entire situation. And you cracked me. I saw just how messed up this entire scheme was, and when I saw it, it was hard for me to stay loyal to it."

"And this realization, it happened last night?" You snarked.

"No," She snapped back, "It happened long before. I received a second sponsor, one who had John's safety in mind."

"Who?" I asked.

She folded her hands. "Patricia Watson."

"My mother?" I stammered. "My  _mother_  hired you?"

"Yes. She and I were under agreement that I would remain loyal to my client  _until_  the time came that she called you in. If and when she gave the order to abduct you, I would step in to prevent it."

"So you were spying on the people you were spying for," I said. " _That_  was what happened in the café."

She nodded. "I brought you out to Camden to talk to you. E had given me orders to bring you in, and so I was prepared to take you away,  _back to Wales_ , where your parents could keep you safe. But I wanted to make sure you were alright, mentally, before I tore you away from Sherlock. We talked; you were. So I laced your drink." She ran her hands through her hair. "But after that, things went wrong."

"Argall was included in the plan by E, and he wouldn't let you help me escape," I murmured.

You hissed. "That was the scene I found in the parking garage."

Anne nodded sadly. "I'm no match for him, in strength or stamina. He took you to E, and now my cover with my client is blown. She knows that I've double-crossed her. I can't battle Argall's word. I'm surprised she hasn't come after me already."

"You should stay with Lestrade until we're able to find her," I said.

"No, no. That isn't necessary. I'd rather not drag more people into this." She smiled apologetically.

"We'll find E, and we'll-" You were cut off.

"My client is not a woman to be trifled with, Sherlock." Anne said, her voice dark. "She's remorseless, intelligent, and bloodhungry. But even she isn't the worst of your problems."

"She's not?" I asked, half surprised and half frustrated.

Anne shook her head, and I watched her skin go clammy. "Her supervisor."

She paused, taking in a deep breath before continuing.

"Don't go near him. Please, don't. He's one of the most vicious men I've ever encountered before. All the cruel things that you've attributed to E have come from his lips, I'll promise you. I've watched him break bone to get what he wants, and if you go after him, he's going to slaughter the both of you, there's no doubt about it. You'll kill yourselves trying."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "But, Anne. There's no choice. You're not safe."

"I'm not safe anywhere, not from them. If they could get Argall out of an iron box, there's nowhere I can run. Besides, I'm better off on my own." She stood. "Now you understand, John. And you have to keep this quiet, alright? If they find out that I told either of you about the plan, they'll dismember me. There are rats everywhere, even here."

"We can deal with rats," You said.

"Please, Anne, stay." I pleaded. "Let us keep you safe,"

"No. They can't know I told anyone else." She pulled her sweater tighter around herself. "I have to go. Be careful, John."

She went as quickly as she came, keeping her head bent.

When the doors were closed, I laid back against your chest, lost in thought.

"How much of that story do you actually believe?" You asked, fixing my hair.

"All of it," I answered, truthfully. "I don't see why she would lie to us."

"To keep herself safe. She might've been on your side, but she's still a trained spy. She knows how to manipulate people." You huffed. "American. She doesn't sound a damn thing like an American."

"You have to admit, she was pretty good." I smiled, amused with the thought of Sherlock Holmes being baffled.

"I've seen better."

I watched the doors. "I'm worried about her, Sherlock. She's going to get herself killed."

"She can handle herself."

"I hope so." I closed my eyes uneasily. "I hope so."

* * *

All I am is a man, I want the reviews in my hands.

Next update Sunday. (It will be better I promise.)


	23. Chapter 23

Dear sweet lordie it's here. Ah finally

This is going to get real dark real fast. All warnings apply. Enjoy.

I don't want to take anything away from these next few chapters so I won't leave any author's notes. Just remember to review and tell me how you feel. I'll see you on the other side.

* * *

The morning of New Year's Eve was bright. Little snowflakes fell from a light overcast, and although the thought of yet another snowstorm didn't excite me, the view was pretty from the hospital window. You had just showered and were now slipping back into your trousers as I stared hopelessly down at my plate.

My hospital breakfast was meager, and my appetite stone-dead, but I managed to swallow a few bites. My doctor had been less than impressed with the number on the scale that morning. But now it was even harder to keep anything down. No matter how much I tried to convince myself that food was harmless, my stomach still turned with refusal, as if it had given up completely on being a stomach. I chewed a mouthful of toast as you sat down beside me.

"Consider yourself lucky, John," You said, picking a strawberry off my tray. "The doctor didn't want you released until the end of the week. It took Mycrof for him t to let me take you home."

"That man needs to go back to medical school." I muttered. "He doesn't know what he's doing."

"He's doing his best." You tied your scarf.

"His best isn't good enough." I sighed and stabbed a cold clump of egg. "I've lost a stone since first I came. A  _stone_."

"Then you need to start eating more."

"But I can't. I'll just throw everything up."

"They have medication for that."

I looked at you. "You've got to be kidding."

"No? There's stuff for nausea, vomitting."

"I'm not taking any more damn  _pills_ , and that's the last I want to hear about it." I huffed.

"Fine, then." You flipped up the collar of your coat. "Are you ready to go?"

"I guess so."

I pushed the metal tray away, sliding my feet to the ground, and you took my hand to help me off the bed. Pain raced up my arms and legs, my ankles weak and knees still sore. I hissed, and immediately you were at my side, your hands hovering just above my shoulders. "Is everything alright? Does something hurt?"

"Everything hurts, that's the problem," I grunted, putting my hand on your arm to steady myself. You gently touched my back.

"Maybe it's better if you stay, after all," You thought.

"That's not necessary." I said, sighing and righting myself. "Let's just get home. I'm tired, and this place drains me."

You studied me, then nodded.

My body wasn't accustomed to all the sedatives the doctors had used on me, I decided. That, paired with the medication and whatever Anne had slipped in my drink, continued to suck the energy out of me even after we left St. Bart's. I positioned my forehead against the cold glass pane to help ease my stomach.

The jacket you had brought for me was irritatingly baggy. It had been a little on the larger side in the first place, but now it was scratching at the skin of my wrists and collar with every shift. I tried to focus on the street buzzing around our cab, but even that was hard. All the movement, the color, and the energy dizzied me, like I had just stepped out of a dream, or stumbled into a massive case of déjà vu.

"When we get home I'll make some tea," You said, noticing my slump against the door. "That hospital coffee was practically water."

"Mmh."

"Are you alright?"

"Just a little sick."

Your hand brushed reassuringly along my back.

We arrived at Baker Street within a few minutes, and I took my crutch while you paid the driver. Gladdie bombarded me as I stepped through the door, yowling and pouncing on my leg. I hissed when his paw hit one of my bruises, and you shouted at him. He changed direction and busied himself with sniffing your feet. I hung up my coat.

"Oh, John! Thank heavens, you're finally here!" Mrs. Hudson came running from her rooms as fast as her hip would take her, her green apron tied around her waist. She threw her arms around me and squeezed. "I've been worried sick about you, dear! Oh, dear Jesus, you look awful."

"I missed you too, Mrs. Hudson." I smiled a little, ignoring the pain. "How was... uh..."

"Holland. Holland was wonderful, dear, thank-you for asking." She fluttered her arms. "I was just making biscuits for you, honey and almond, your favorite. Come and sit, would you? I'd love if you'd sit with me, just for a little bit, would you?"

"John should rest, Mrs. Hudson," You said, kicking the door back inside.

"No, no, it's alright. I can." I nodded to you. You made an averse face, but still followed me when I crutched into her kitchen.

The smell of the freshly-baked biscuits nearly knocked me over. There were about two-dozen of them, all hot and stacked on a plate in the middle of her table. Obviously she had been cleaning again, because the stink of bleach cleaner still hung in the air, although masked by the biscuits. The news chittered from a radio-box in the corner until Mrs. Hudson switched it off, motioning for me to take a chair at her dinner-table.

"Would you like a cuppa?" She chirped. "I'll put on the kettle."

"Thank you, that'd be nice." I sat down and sighed, stretching out my bad leg while you took the seat across from me.

She bustled, setting the pot down on the stove with a clang. I almost flinched, and rubbed my ear to cover it up. "I'm so, so glad you're home, John. It's been dreadful quiet without you here, Sherlock out running around late and all. Barely even came home, I'll tell you. He never remembers to say hello, you know how he is on those big cases of his." She muttered to herself, "Tearing up my bloody wall with all his papers."

"It's better I make use of it," You folded your hands on the table.

"You can make use of it by letting it be as a bloody wall instead of a corkboard."

The phone rang from the other room, and Mrs. Hudson pushed out of her seat. "Oh, that's probably Tommy. I left one of my suitcases down in Holland, you know, busy busy... I'll just take this, alright? You boys stay right here." She scuttled off, her shoes gently squeaking along the floor. You and I locked eyes for a few moments.

"We can go now, while she's occupied," You offered.

"No, it's alright." I stretched my shoulders, just gently. "We can stay a little longer. I don't want her to worry about me."

"It would probably be better if we left, then. You do look awful."

I shook my head.

You pursed your lips, then reached into your pocket. You drew out a small pill-bottle and set it down between us, its gentle tap twisting a hole into my gut. I stared at it with dread, then looked up and met your gaze.

"You went pale." You said, quietly. "What's scaring you?"

I swallowed hard, gripping my trembling hands together in my lap. Even seeing the bottle - not even the pills, the bottle alone - had almost made me throw up. My skin felt clammy, and I could feel my lungs beginning to buckle.

You were beside me, your hand resting on my shoulder. "Is it an attack?"

"It's fine. I'm fine." I sucked down a breath. "Just... put that away. Would you. Just put it away."

After a pause, you grabbed the bottle and held it in your palm. You turned it over, scanning across the label and going quiet. Gently you unscrewed it, and held the lip directly under my nose. "Do you smell anything?"

I jerked away. "The hell do you mean, Sherlock?"

You pulled it away and moved for the kettle. I watched you as you served a cup of tea, stirring as its steam wafted up toward the ceiling. You used one of Mrs. Hudson's various tea containers, with the label out of my line of sight. As it was finished you held it in front of me, letting the steam drift into my nose.

"What do you smell, John?"

I curled my nose and tried to yank away again. The smell was making me uneasy. "What do you mean, smell? I smell tea, isn't that what I'm supposed to smell?"

You grumbled. "Anything  _else_?"

"No. Just tea. Did you put something in it?" I sniffed. "Yorkshire?"

Your eyes got narrow. "Yes. It's Yorkshire."

"Okay?" I leaned onto my elbows and bounced my leg. "What does that mean?"

"I think you were right."

"Well, that's a fucking first."

"Think, John. When you received that parcel in the mail, what was the first thing you did with it? You smelt it. When we were in the café, I had the bleach cleaner. I noticed that you seemed particularly sensitive to the smell. Too sensitive. Much more sensitive than normal. When we entered the dog pound, your reaction was the same."

"So,  _what_ , Sherlock?" I stammered.

You grabbed the pill bottle and tossed it into the air. "She was clever. She was goddamn  _clever_. This is how she did it, John." You held the bottle in front of me. "These are benzodiazepines, John. Benzodiazephines, which, when allowed to build up in the liver, can cause senses such as smell to become abnormally acute. She's overdosing you on your own medication. Goddamn. That's fantastic."

I let my head fall a little, my eyebrows knitting. "So... it  _was_  the meds, then?"

"I'll need to do an analysis on these, right away." You popped out a pill and held it to the light. "She could have had your pills switched with duplicates, or the doctor could have been on her side all along. Or a nurse, or a supervisor. Changing the charts. Covering up the bloodwork."

"Sherlock."

"It's flawless. As the medication built up in your system, it gave you all kinds of symptoms that your doctor simply prescribed as depression; exhaustion, lack of appetite, nausea, anx-"

" _Sherlock_..."

" _What_?"

I held my head in my hands, still trembling. I focused all my energy to my arms, trying to still them, but my body was working against me.

You knelt down again, putting your hand on my knee. "John? What's wrong?"

I choked, balling my fists with handfuls of hair. Sickness made me weak, and my head spun with the gravity of everything you were saying. I was right? It was the meds? We could've stopped this a whole long fucking time ago? But it could've have been the meds. The symptoms were there when I was  _off_  the meds, with E. The symptoms are here now. And I had to add Anne to the mix, and E, and Argall, and my parents, and Lestrade, and Harry, and mum, and you...

I burst into tears. "I don't know. I don't bloody know, Sherlock. I should've just - ... Should've - ..."

"Shhh, quiet, John," You whispered, petting my hair. "I'm sorry. I overwhelmed you."

"Fuck this. Fuck Anne. Fuck everything." I let my head fall to the surface of the table, my chest heaving. "Oh, god."

Your face softened. "Let me take you upstairs. You need to rest. Mrs. Hudson shouldn't see you like this."

I nodded, and you helped me from my chair.

* * *

Nothing could calm my nerves. I couldn't sleep because of my stomach, so I laid spread across the couch with a rag on my forehead, miserable and trying hard not to puke. You tried to give me tea, water, ginger ale, sports drinks, anything you could think of, but none of it helped and nothing would stay down. Crap telly was irritating, and I couldn't read without getting so dizzy I couldn't hold my head up straight. I considered taking a walk, but my legs hurt so badly it would have almost defeated the purpose. Mrs. Hudson offered me some of her "herbal soothers", but you didn't want any new drugs in my system until he figured out exactly what my doctor had been giving me.

You spent most of your time bent over your microscope with my bottle of pills. But the day passed, and you had nothing to show for your work. The pills were the normal dosage, no extra chemicals, no extra coatings. There was no hint of anything amiss with any one of them.

"I don't understand," You muttered, turning the bottle over in your palm. "It has to be these."

"Is it possible that the pills  _weren't_  the method of delivery?" I croaked.

"No." You huffed and leaned your elbows onto the counter. "It  _has_  to."

Gently, I turned over. I caught your eye and you stood, walking over to me. You felt my rag, now warm, and took it to run it under the tap. "How are you feeling."

"Shitty as hell." I replied. "Tired as shit."

"The sun's almost down. If you want, you can lay down in the bedroom. Maybe you can get some sleep."

"Doubt it."

"You can try."

You came back with the rag, cooling my forehead. I grabbed it and stuffed it under the thin fabric of my nightshirt, grazing along my stomach and settling on my chestbone. My lungs felt as if they were swollen, and the crisp rag helped it to loosen. You ran your hand through my hair.

"I'll carry you in," You said.

"No, I'm quite capable of walking," I replied. "Hand me my crutch."

You complied, putting the handle of my crutch in my hand while I worked at sitting up. I let the rag fall back into my lap, and immediately felt the weight of its absence. I put my hand on the back of my neck, disgusted with my own sweat, and struggled up.

After standing, I leaned heavily both onto your arm and my crutch. "I'm gross," I muttered.

"Shower? It could help break the fever."

I thought about it. "That sounds really nice, actually."

You helped me into the bathroom and set me down on the edge of the tub. I didn't agrgue; after taking a few steps I realized just how weak I actually was. You knelt down and unbuttoned my greasy nightshirt, slipped my trousers from my knees, unwound the coils of bandages, and set up the water to run cold. The chilly mist helped open up my chest, and the sensation of water running through my hair made me shiver. It felt good. It was the first thing that had felt  _good_  in such a long time.

Afterward, you toweled me off with great care, caressing my arms and legs as if they were made of porcelain. For the first time I got a good look at all my injuries - the dark purple and blue blotches on my thighs, the deep gashes travelling from my calves to my shoulders, the swollen ankles and throbbing wrists. I could see the veins crawling up my arms, distinct against my pale skin. You gently took my hand and ran it against yours, watching me with careful, cautious eyes. "Better?"

"Better." I nodded.

You stood and pressed your lips against my forehead for a short kiss, then took both my hands and pulled me to my feet. We went into the bedroom, and you pulled back the blankets so that I could lay down. While I situated myself, you turned to the wardrobe and started shedding your own clothes.

"I'll lay with you until you fall asleep." You said as you pulled off your belt. "Then I'll keep working. I'll figure this out and make you better. Alright?"

I nodded, closing my eyes against the sweet, familiar smell of your bed. Eventually you climbed in beside me and nudged me against your chest, laying your hand against the small of my back. I took a deep breath.

* * *

It began with darkness, and the thick, nauseating smell of sweat, vomit, and sex. A gentle whimpering echoed through the cavernous room. You. I blinked hard, trying to get my eyes to adjust, but they only remained seeing things in formless, colorless blobs. Slowly your form started to take shape, squirming and shaking, stripped naked, with your hair plastered to your sweaty forehead.

_Oh, Jesus, no._

Your skin was covered in bruises, just like mine. But bruises weren't the extent. Bite marks and scratches roamed across your body, from your throat to your navel and spreading across your hips. You writhed, your face contorted with both shame and pain. Blood dripped from between your legs, and you curled over yourself, trying to hide your humiliation, but you could only weep louder as the pain widened its grip.

I cried out for you. You weren't supposed to know.

The darkness washed away, leaving me trapped between the bleach-stained walls of St. Bart's. I watched as the tail of Molly Hooper's braid disappeared behind the door, its iron latch swinging closed behind it. The mortuary. There you were - stretched across the cold surface of an examination table, your skin bare and exposed to the harsh lights above you. Your chest was not moving. You were dead.

I stepped up to look at you, emptiness eating away at my heart. You looked so peaceful. I reached for the sheet to cover you, but my eyes grazed your midsection. Your belly was covered in small lacerations from your hips to your ribs and all over your chest. They were no battle wounds. I looked farther, at your arms, split open from the shoulders all the way down to your wrists, inside and outside. The sight made my throat burn. Everything spun out of focus.

_Awake._

I flew out of bed and immediately jumped into a pace, ignoring the ache of my legs. You were startled awake and reached to flip the lamp switch on.

"John?" You sat up.

"Take off your shirt," I snapped.

You blinked. "What?"

_"Take off your shirt, dammit."_

Hesitantly, you began to unbutton the top of your nightshirt. As it fell away from your neck, the smooth expanses of cream skin flooded me with relief.

"Oh, thank Jesus," I panted, my voice breaking. I collapsed back onto the bed, curling my fists into the blankets.

"So I can keep the shirt?" You sat forward, touching my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"No. I'm not alright. Stop asking me if I'm alright. It's fucking obvious that I'm not alright. Fuck." I squeezed my eyes shut, and you rubbed my back.

"Lay back down."

I crept over, the burn in my muscles now ripe. I trembled with my head against your shoulder.

My emotions were out of control. Sadness stabbed my chest with deep sobs, and you froze underneath me, unsure of what to do. But, I realized, there was nothing you  _could_  do. Emptiness had engulfed me, and I could feel the jaws of a beast lingering close, just waiting for me to give in. Its hot breath made my head spin. Its claws stung my wounds and closed off my lungs. It waited, its slime covering my skin, a curled smile like disease hovering beside my ear.

No one could help me, and I was weak. As I cried out, clinging desperately to your clothes, it nested. It curled its tail along my spine, driving its teeth into the darkest recesses of my mind.

Sleep came, writhing and snarling.

* * *

The dreams I had that night were some of the most horrible I've ever experienced. They are not things that I want to burden you with, nor ones I want to bring back into memory.

* * *

Daylight was not welcome. This time, my body fought consciousness as violently as it could. You watched, helpless.

* * *

Morning faded into evening. Your ice blue eyes studied me closely, but in vain. There was no "problem". There was no "puzzle".

* * *

Time slipped into the darkness.

* * *

Cold swirled around me like the tendrils of a winter snow-storm. It was dark, the sky devoid of stars, Baker Street empty of life or light. The door to the flat had been left open, deep snow building just inside the foyer, a mournful tune echoing out from the cavernous stairway.

I stepped carefully over the piles of snow, pulling my coat tight. The stairs screamed with frozen effort under my feet, threatening to snap at any moment. Tracks of snow followed me up and lead through the doorway into our flat. Door ajar, the freezing wind blew through the wide windows, their billowing curtains filling the entire room.

You stood against the breeze, wearing only your dressing gown, the sleeves tied up around your arms. A dark tune shivered up from your violin, ice hanging off the neck of the instrument as you cradled it against the cold. Your eyes met mine.

"Come in, John," You called, your voice thick. "Please, John, come in."

My throat tightened as you turned. Your puncture wounds seeped a white liquid, marks running from your inner arm to your wrist.

The violin's air ran sour, and I jolted from sleep, thrust unwelcome into the cold darkness of our bedroom.

Curling against my side, I bit my tears back. You. I hated that dream, I hated all my fucking dreams. I hated  _feeling_  this way. Everything in my mind was crumbling in on itself, because I  _knew_ , I  _knew_  that you would have died. If I had stayed in that dream, I would've watched you fall from the roof of St. Barts until my skull split open along with yours. You were dead either way. If you weren't dead from the fall, you were dead because you starved yourself. You were dead because you overdosed. You were dead because you cut your own wrists open, dangling from the edge of a bathrub with maggots in your mouth.  _You were dead_. And there was nothing I could do but lay there and take it.

Faintly, your violin rang out. You were playing, softly, slowly. You were thinking. Thinking about me. Thinking about the case. Thinking about what you could do to help me. But you couldn't help me. No one could help me. No amount of drugs, or therapy, or sex, or cutting, or crying could help me. Thinking was futile. Feeling was hollow.

My entire body ached with pain. Even my heart felt raw. I knew this feeling. It was defeat. I was defeated. I was destroyed. I was empty and useless and insignificant and I was in pain. You won, Anne. You won, Argall. You won, E. You fucking won.

Scales brushed against my arm, and I opened my eyes, letting my gaze fall on the drawer of my bed-side table. Fine. Fine, I said. You won. You fucking won.


	24. Chapter 24

Your back was to me as I entered the room. Your arms moving slowly along the strings of your violin as the fading sunight drifted through your hair. Gently you swayed with the wavering tune. I hesitated for a moment. Standing behind the armchair, I let my eyes linger on you a little longer, giving you a moment more of peace. But as your melody ended, you turned, your blue eyes dim with shadows from the fire.

"I love you, Sherlock," I blurted.

You cocked your head. "...Thank you?"

"I really do, you know." I tried to smile, but couldn't. "I don't think I say that enough."

You paused, then set your violin back in its case. "Why don't you sit. You're pale."

"No."

Startled, you stared at me.

"I can't. I just... I don't want to sit. I want to see you." I gripped the sleeves of my jumper. "I... I just... I wanted to. See you."

"See me?" You shuffled. "Is something wrong?"

I met your eyes and watched you fade into thought. I hadn't fooled myself into thinking I could've hidden anything from you for long, but I hadn't expected you to catch on this quickly. Your eyes glazed over and your lips turned down. Thoughts flashed behind your crystal irises before I could even reply, and I saw the veins in your neck stand out.

"Tell me," You said, taking a cautious step in my direction.

"Don't touch me," I whispered, my voice raspy.

Immediately your face filled with panic. "What have you done, John."

"Nothing," I answered.

"You took something."

"Nothing," I repeated.

"I don't like the way you're sounding."

"Just hear me out."

You studied me carefully, eyes wide and brow tense. Then you took a seat and pointed a finger at mine. "Sit."

I pursed my lips and obeyed, hesitantly sliding into my chair. The barrel of my pistol, cushioned against the small of my back, made me shiver. Your hands folded underneath your chin, but your eyes were dark and circumspect. Desperately I wanted to melt into the shadows behind me, but I remained frozen in my chair, picked apart by your stone gaze.

"Talk." You weaved your fingers. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"What I'm thinking," I murmured, shifting in my chair.

"Yes. Don't close yourself off. You need to talk to me."

I bit my cheek. "I don't know."

The longer I looked at you, the stronger the pull on my throat, and the harder it was to bite back my emotion. My hands trembled with the effort. Why was I here. Why had I even come out here. Why couldn't I have just pulled the trigger quietly, out of the way, before you had a chance to try to talk me out of it. Did I want you to talk me out of it? No. Did I want your reaction? No. Why was I here. Why did I still care.

"John? Focus." You leaned forward. "Talk to me. You need t-"

"Sherlock, I'm  _tired_."

Even with such a simple statement, tears welled up behind my eyes faster than I could blink them away. I hated when I cried; crying always made me feel weak, vulnerable. Crying made me lose my reservations. It eroded my walls until I was left open and exposed, with my eyes raw and swollen. It never made me feel refreshed, like other people had assured me. It was humiliating, and I hated it. But you didn't seem to mind, or care. Your eyes remained on me, still focused and thorough.

"John."

I didn't answer.

"John," You said again.

"What, Sherlock?" I snapped. "What do you want from me. Do you want me to give you some neat little  _problem_  for you to fix? Do you want me to give you a  _puzzle_  to solve? There isn't one, dammit. There just isn't."

"Alright. Alright." You murmured. "Take a deep breath. You've been ill. If you would rest-"

"No. I'm not  _resting_. I can't  _rest_." I replied, my voice threatening to give way. "I- I- I can't. There are nightmares. There are...  _things_. I just... I can't rest. I can't think. I can't  _function_ , Sherlock, and it's all just too much. It's too much."

"I understand, John. You're in pain. I understand."

"No. No, you don't understand. You have no idea how much  _pain_  I'm in, Sherlock. It doesn't just  _hurt_. It isn't just  _there_. It's  _inside_  me, and it's  _aching_ , and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"That's not true, John. Stop telling yourself that." You insisted. "I can help you. Lestrade can help you. You can help yourself. It isn't hopeless. There's always something you can do."

"No."

"You can fight this off, John."

"I've  _tried_. I've tried and tried, but I can't, Sherlock, and I'm  _tired_. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of hurting." I leaned onto my elbows and put my head in my hands. "I don't want you to talk me down. I don't want you to tell me I'm wrong."

"Then you're being selfish. You're not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking perfectly straight."

"No, John, listen to me. You're sick. You're detoxing. You're traumatized. What you need right now is to relax and to rest. You don't have to do anything right now. You don't have to decide. You need to rest. Decide later."

"I'm deciding right now," I quavered.

"Just,  _think_ , John."

"I am thinking!" I shouted. "I am thinking. I want it to end."

"It will end. In time, it will end."

"I don't have time."

"You have plenty of time."

"I don't want to have time."

"J-"

"I want to  _die_ , Sherlock. No. I don't care about time. I don't care about anything. I want this to end.  _I want to die_."

Your eyes flashed. You were stung to silence, your lips parted, breath still. I took a deep breath, steadying my hand, and gripped the handle of my pistol, drawing it out slowly. I held it between my hands and stared at it a long time, turning it over while I searched for more to say. The sight made you flinch.

"I don't want to leave you," I started. "I really don't. I want to stay and to be healthy again. I want to someday stand beside you and not feel inadequate. But the longer I wait for that to happen, the more I realize it never will. I will always be three steps behind you. I will never really belong with you."

" _John_."

"Stop. Let me finish." I cleared my throat, with a cough just a little short of a whimper. "I try so hard to make myself worth something to you, to hold my own, but it drains me. I'm not meaningful. I'm not special. I'm not like you; I'm not above it all, I'm not brilliant, I'm not clever. I want to help you, but I can't. I want to be worth something, but I'm not. You are. I'm not. Eventually you'll move on to greater things, greater advantages than me. You'll be fine. You'll move on. I need to stop fighting and accept it."

"Stop it, John," You said, "Stop it, right now."

"No, Sherock." I took a breath. "All I am is deadweight to you. I'm more trouble than I'm worth, and I'm done fighting."

My grief was so deep I could feel it on my fingertips. My throat felt like wax, and I stroked the neck of the pistol gently. I knew now. I wanted to die. I was sure of it. I wanted all of this to be overwith. Once it was done, it would be settled. I would be free of pain, and you would be free of me. I wouldn't let myself suffer any further.

But you were still pressing on. "John." You growled, tone dark. "Look at me. You still have time. Give me the pistol, and we can move past this."

"I don't want to move past it, Sherlock."

"You're not lost, John. You're not dying. You still have a fighting chance. There's still tomorrow, there's still next week, there's still years ahead of you. I know you're in pain, but this will only prevent yourself from getting better, permanently. I know you're smart enough to know that. You've just decieved yourself. It's the drugs talking, not you. Stay with me, John.  _John_."

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut and letting the tears spring out. "No, Sherlock. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be like I was before. I don't want to be left empty. I can't be like I was in the ward. I can't do it. I won't do it."

"You won't have to. John." You crept forward, putting a hand on my knee. "That's behind you. That's in the past."

" _No_ , Sherlock, it's not in the past. It's right fucking here. It's right here, staring me in the face every day that I stay here. Every day that I wake up and you're there beside me, there it is. I'm not doing it again, Sherlock."

"What are you talking about?" You stammered.

I looked up at the ceiling, swallowing in gulps of air. "I'm not going to put myself through another fall. I'm not going to let myself disintegrate into blubbering madness. I'm not going to keep living like this just for the hope that one day you'll come back and save me. I can't do it, Sherlock. Because you're not coming, and I'm not going to fool myself anymore."

"You're not making sense."

" _You left me_ , Sherlock. You fucking made me watch you die. And now you're leaving me here to watch it, over and over again.  _You left me_."

"I came back! I'm here now! I'm not going to leave you!"

"I can't  _trust_  you, Sherlock! I can't. I-..." I clutched my hands against my chest, afraid the gun would slip through my trembling fingers. "I  _want_  to. I  _want_  to believe you. I want to get better. I want to feel normal. But I can't. It hurts too much. I-I-I can't go back to the ward. I can't go to Ella, or to Greg, or to anyone. I'm alone. I'm  _alone_ , Sherlock. I'll always be alone."

The air was sucked from my lungs. Your face went blank.

"I'm  _alone_ , I've always been alone, and I always will be alone. No matter what I do, who I pursue, I will always be alone. I'm alone in my pain, I'm alone in my feelings, I'm alone in my head.  _I'm alone_. There's nowhere for me to go. I don't want to get better, I don't want to go back to being lonely. I hate being here. I hate being lonely, and feeling lonely, and being alone. I want to go. Let me go."

Slowly I regained control of my hands. Your eyes studied mine for the last time.

"Forgive me."

I pressed the cold metal against my throat. Point-blank range. Draw. Pull.


	25. Chapter 25

I remembered the first day. You had watched me, silent, with sadness in your face as I turned to gaze at you. My eyes were still clouded with sleep, but by the light in the windows, it must have been at least afternoon. You reached down to smooth my hair from my eyes.

"You took the medicine." You whispered. "Good, John."

The trigger of my pistol clicked. Nothing. I pulled again, shaking. Nothing. Again.  _Nothing_. Again.

"He said it would make you drowsy. It's alright, just rest." You rubbed my shoulder and stood up, brushing off your coat and tying your scarf around your neck.

You had reached into my drawer. You had gone in for my gun. You had taken my gun.

"I'll be back soon, John." You leaned down to press your lips against my temple.

"No, no,  _no_ ,  _no_." My hands clenched over the pistol's neck as my chest built with pressure. " _Christ_ , no. Sherlock.  _No_."

_You had taken the bullets from my gun._

I felt my entire soul break into pieces. It shattered like glass, its fragments piercing my heart, filling my lungs. I could hardly feel my body as the dizziness continued to spread, and pain radiated throughout my entire body from my legs to the tips of my fingers. Hysterical sobs seared my throat as they came

"You- You-" I gasped, clutching the gun to my chest, still desperately pulling at the trigger. "You- You  _fuck_."

" _John_. Listen to me."

You reached out to touch my shoulder, but I pushed myself up, struggling to my feet just to collapse to my knees. Gently you slipped the gun from my hands, setting it behind us as you took me up onto your lap.

"You took them-" I shrieked, clawing and crying. "You took- You-" I descended into gutteral sobs.

"You'll get through this." You whispered. "It's almost over. You'll get through this."

I pulled at your shirt, and you held me against your chest. You rocked me slowly back and forth, petting my hair and waiting.

Mrs. Hudson's clicking footsteps came quickly from the downstairs flat when she heard the commotion. Her words caught in her throat when she saw us, with me curled small and fragile in your arms."Oh,  _heavens_ , Sherlock, what's happened?" She cried.

"He's just had another attack. It's alright, Mrs. Hudson." You hid the gun from her sight. "Go into my bedroom, there's a large London study near the center of my bookshelf. Bring me the little black box."

"Box?" She chirped. "Sherlock, if you've been hiding drugs again..."

_"Mrs. Hudson."_

"Alright, alright! Black box. Okay." She scrambled out of the room.

You kicked the gun under the foot of your chair. I had quieted down a little, but only because I was running out of breath, and you quickly moved to lift me up and bring me onto the sofa. You gripped my hand in yours and held your head close to mine, close enough so that I could hear the waver in your voice. Your hands were cold.

"Can you hear me, John?" You breathed. "Stay with me."

Mrs. Hudson rushed back in with something clutched between her hands, and although she voiced her objection, you ignored it and grabbed it from her as soon as she came within reach. Opening it, you removed a syringe and a small bottle of clear liquid.

"Are you giving him cocaine?!" She shrieked.

"Why the hell would I be giving him cocaine," You snapped back, reaching for your scarf. "You know how to do this. Help me tie him."

I thrashed against you, but you gripped my wrist and elbow while Mrs. Hudson (with great complaint) tightened your scarf around my bicep. She pulled it until I felt it cutting into one of my bruises. You flicked your needle and held it up to the light, then positioned yourself by my waist with your hand on my wrist. I hardly felt the needle, but I could feel the slow wave start to engulf me. Everything was suddenly much farther away.

Your hand was on my chest. Mrs. Hudson was gone now, and so was the sun. You were watching me, your eyes empty and weary, your skin the color of the flames in the fireplace. There were trails of tears on your cheeks, as blisters of darkness encircled your head.

Slowly I faded from conciousness.

* * *

The drugs made me feel like a stone in a stream, with time flowing past me without consequence. I slept for a long time without nightmares or any dreams at all. After such a long time with dreams being a normal part of the night it was strange to have nothing. Lights and colors blurred together whether my eyes were closed or open, dancing across the ceiling and making me sick. But I could identify the large square of dark blue as your coat moving back and forth across our room.

You were packing. You hadn't slept at all that night - you had made phone calls, you had made arrangements, and now you were finishing packing two small suitcases, one with your clothing and one with mine. Dark bags hung under your eyes, but you splashed cold water on your face to freshen it up and bring some color back.

Coffee filled the air, and I could see the steaming mug sitting idly on my nightstand. Every minute or so you would reluctantly swallow a mouthful and return to your packing. You detested coffee; I had never seen you drink it before, unless you were working on a challenging case and cocaine was off the table. But you kept forcing yourself to drink it, shaking your head to distract from the taste. You were thinking, but you had no time for your violin.

When you realized I was awake, you came to sit beside me and put your hand against my forehead. "You're a bit warm." You brushed across my cheek. "How do you feel."

I turned my head. "What'd you give me...?"

"It's morphine. How do you feel."

"I don't know."

"Mm."

You gently pulled the blankets down from around my shoulders.

As the sun rose, you brought our suitcases into the sitting room and dressed me. My navy blue jumper swallowed up my wrists and my waist, but it was warm and unconstricting, as not to put as much pressure on my stomach. You carried me into the living room to wait, propping me up against the arm of the sofa and letting me doze for a little while longer. Mrs. Hudson brought up food for the two of us, but you ended up feeding my portion to Gladstone.

The speed with which you put your plan into action made me suspect that you had been considering your next step long before I picked up the gun. You had been devising and preparing ever since I had been abducted in the first place. First you ordered the car. Then you contacted my parents in Cardiff. It wasn't as much of a request to visit more than it was an report of our visit. My father opened up the invitation, and you started packing.

You tied your scarf around your neck and flipped up the collar of your coat, taking the handle of my suitcase and making for the door. Before you stepped through, you glanced at me. Your eyes had hardly left me for more than a few minutes at any time. You were always within arm's reach, always hovering, always watching over me, carefully keeping track of my temperature and my blood pressure and my breathing. Once I could see your eyes glisten, as if a small diamond had been pressed into the corner of your eye. I reached out to touch your hand, and you whispered something I couldn't hear.

* * *

The car helped me stay awake, with the white noise of the engine and the news station playing quietly over the radio. The smell of the fresh leather had frightened me at first, but you had stopped at a little shop and bought me a vanilla-scented air freshener to make it a little easier. We drove west out of London and onto the M4 motorway, waiting for the heating to kick in and the traffic to clear.

"I hope it isn't too much trouble for my parents, staying with them," I said. "It's fairly short notice."

"They'll be relieved to see you. They've been worried."

"I guess that's true." I sighed.

You looked over, evaluated me, and turned back to the road. "You look much better."

I shrugged and stretched out my legs. I had been curled into a ball in the far corner of my seat, pressed against the door and the window, with my jaw tightly clamped down on my teeth. When I realized it I tried to loosen myself and sit upright.

"Your bruises aren't as deep anymore." You mentioned.

"I still look like shit, though." Saying that, I went back into the corner. I remembered why I had adopted that position in the first place; otherwise I was able to see myself in the rear-view mirror, black eyes and all. My stomach favored being curled, so I laid my head against the cold window and watched the horizon out of your side of the car, keeping my legs pulled tightly against my chest. "When should we get there."

"About eleven." You answered. "If traffic is good. It might take us longer because of the season. If you need to pull over for anything, tell me."

"Alright." I shifted, looking at you. A brief silence passed, and I decided to ask what I had been thinking about for the last few minutes. "Where did you get so much morphine, Sherlock?"

You glanced over. "I was keeping it in case of an emergency."

"Ex-addicts don't just keep drugs on-hand in case of an emergency."

" _I_  did. I'm not only an ex-addict, I'm a consulting detective, constantly in the line of fire of all kinds of criminal organizations. I didn't know if it would ever become necessary, whether you or I would need it, but I kept it besides the fact."

"Then if you had it the whole time, and you knew it would help me, why didn't you give it to me sooner?"

"I didn't want to give it to you at all. I was saving it for the worst of circumstances. I knew there was a risk of addiction, especially with your diagnosis, and it could have reacted badly to the drugs E had already been giving you. But I was afraid that you would worsen if I did nothing." Your eyes glazed over, fixed on the road. "It was a last resort."

I scratched at the crook of my arm, where two little injection marks were hidden beneath the sleeve of my jumper. I realized how painful it must have been for you to inject me so soon after you had relapsed yourself, and after everything that had happened. Now looking back at you, I could see the confliction still marking your face.

"Wales will be good for you." You stated. "You'll be out of E's reach, at least until I can determine what to do next, and it'll put us in contact with your parents. If we-"

Your phone chirped, the shrill tone surprising both of us. I reached over into your coat pocket and took your mobile. "Oh, it's Lestrade."

"Answer it."

I swiped the screen and held it to my ear. "Hello?"

"John? It's Greg." Lestrade's voice sounded almost unwell, and the noise behind him was dotted with sirens and stern shouts. "Wow, it's good to hear from you. How are you feeling? Sherlock told me he was taking you up to Wales. You doing alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Good. I want to talk to you, but I have news for Sherlock that's pretty urgent. Is he there?"

"Yeah, I'll give you over."

I handed you the phone, and I noticed you turn down the volume just slightly as you raised it to your ear. "Lestrade."

You purposed to keep me out of the conversation, but by what I could read through your tone it wasn't good. Your mood shifted for the worse, and I pursed my lips and waited for the relay. The hills rolled past us as you talked.

As you set down the phone, I watched you. "Are you going to tell me what he said?"

"You're not well enough." You replied.

I huffed. "Sherlock. I'm not a kid. You don't have to coddle me."

"You're more fragile than you think."

"Just tell me."

You glanced at me, and I sunk farther against the car door. Your overprotectiveness was irritating, but at the same time I sensed it was appropriate. After all, I had just forced you to watch me hold a gun to my own head - I shouldn't be complaining now that you weren't convinced of my personal reliability. But I wanted to know, and I felt like  _not_  knowing would have bothered me more.

"Anne Carter is missing from her flat." You stated. "Lestrade got a warrant for her arrest, but by the time he had arrived she was gone. Signs of a struggle."

"Oh, God." I rubbed my forehead, feeling my skin go clammy. "Dammit, I told her she should've stayed with Mycroft."

"We can only hope that Anne can provide enough of a distraction for us to secure your parents' estate," You continued. "It's even more important now that we reach them. E will most likely be frustrated, and you can't take any more injury. We have no time left to waste dancing around this case."

I nodded, leaning my head against the spine of my seat and closing my eyes to think. I could feel you watching me, but I didn't care. "I hope Mum and Dad haven't had to deal with any of this. I don't care if they knew about it, I just don't want them to have to deal with it too."

My eyes opened, and yours met them. You looked sad. The purple outlining your eyes was even more distinct now against the backdrop of white, with the pale sky allowing no warmth. I swallowed, feeling for the first time ashamed of the way you looked at me. I had hurt you. I could hardly even remember what I had said to hurt you so badly, but I had hurt you, and now you had even more on your plate that you had to sort through. I curled tighter, trying to get myself as far away as I could from you.

"It'll be good for you to be with your parents." You said, quietly. "For you as much as them. It will help you. They will help you."

I nodded, then closed my eyes again. I wondered whether you were reassuring me or to reassuring yourself.

* * *

Sorry this is a day late, it was a hectic weekend. Hopefully I didn't scare anyone too badly aha.

The review you stole off the stage has red and purple lipstick all over the page.

Next update Thursday.


	26. Chapter 26

Hey guys. I'm sorry I haven't been able to update on-time this week, it's been hectic. I'm trying to finish school and wrap up Asphyxia while busy with our theater group's tech week and it's a lot of shit to work through believe it or not. I'll try to keep myself on track but just bear with me.

We're getting closer and closer to the end! Chapter 30 is the finish line. Sprint till the end? Sprint till the end.

Enjoy!

* * *

I was lulled to sleep by the hum of the engine about halfway through our ride. You roused me every few minutes, just to make sure I was still alright, and by the fifth time I wasn't quite pleasant about it. The morphine had begun to wear off, and in consequence my muscles ached and my wounds stung whenever my jumper brushed against them. I decided to suffer through it until we got there, but the recurrence of the pain made me unhappy.

Dull pangs echoed through my chest whenever I breathed. Guilt had settled there like thick dust, and watched the window blankly, trying to relax so I didn't have to deal with the pain. You watched me, tense yourself, and at one point reached over to pat my knee. "As soon as we get there, I'll give you another dose." You promised.

"I don't want more morphine," I bit back, and almost lost it. I pressed my forehead against the glass and held my breath.

You frowned. "Sorry."

I sucked in a sigh. "I just want to sleep."

"We're almost there."

"And I want to be there when you talk to them. I want to know."

"Then I'll wait for you, as long as you're mindful of your health."

I nodded.

The house my parents now lived in was not the one I had grown up in, so I had almost no memory of it, besides various Christmas dinners, but those were a long time ago. My father had bought it at a bargain for sixty million pounds, the celebration of a new hundred-million quid deal, when I was eighteen. A half-mile driveway stretched past a wide white gate, dividing the street from the drive. It wound around a short hill to where the house looked off toward the sparkling lights of Cardiff. You had definitely not been expecting it's ridiculous girth. I could see the awe on your face as we pulled up the front roundabout.

Mum came through the doors just as we parked, and my heart lifted as I saw her. Her grey hair was pushed by the breeze as she ran out to our car as fast as her heels would take her. "Oh, John!" She shrieked happily, throwing her arms around my neck and squeezing. "I'm so glad you're here, sweetheart, oh I've missed you so horribly, it's been perfectly awful."

"I've missed you too, Mum." I smiled and rubbed her shoulders, careful to be gentle with her. "You've gained weight since last I saw you."

"Yes, a whole two stones! It's been lovely, it really has." She giggled, but then gave me a closer look. "Though, you've been losing."

"It's been difficult keeping things down lately," I confessed.

"That's a shame." Her eyes flashed, and she took my arm in hers. "I told the cook to plan for salmorejo for dinner, do you still have a taste for salmorejo? I knew you used to like it, but I didn't know, it's been such a long while since you've been home."

"I haven't had salmorejo in ages. Though, isn't it cold?"

"I couldn't remember any hot dishes you liked." She shrugged. "But come inside, I'll have him make it up now instead."

"Actually," You interjected, "John should rest. He wasn't feeling well on the way, it would be better if he laid down for a few minutes before attempting anything."

"Oh." Mum turned to you as you came around the car, and the two of you studied each other. "You must be Shorluck."

"Sherlock." You corrected. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Watson."

"And you, Mr. Holmes." She smiled and patted my arm. "If you're tired, John, I'll show you to your room."

"Thanks, Mum." I squeezed her hand, and she led the way.

Mum led us through the house's wide halls, and I tried my best to keep up with her without tripping her on my crutch. Our room was on the right side of the house, first floor, and we had to go through the massive sitting room to even reach our hall. I expected my father to come out at any moment, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Our guest suite boasted tall windows and a set of French doors leading out onto the back patio. The curtains were a deep beige, set against the rich red wood panelling and cream sitting-chairs. We had our own small sitting-room and bath, even a fireplace. I gaped a bit as the footman set down our bags.

"Do you have a large staff, then?" You asked, a bit at a loss.

"Not very. Most of them are just maintenance. Someone has got to keep this house clean." Mum nodded, and shooed the footman away. "You can rest as long as you'd like, John. If Mr. Holmes would rather stay in reach of you, there's a library just across the way you can help yourself to. I'll be in the kitchen, alright?"

"Alright." I smiled at her. "Thank you."

"My pleasure!" She pecked my cheek and showed herself out.

I collapsed onto the bed just as the door closed. My leg was killing me, and my head was pounding with the overwhelming largeness of this place. I had gone too quickly from the stuffy car into my father's damn palace, and it made me a bit dizzy. You squatted down to unzip your suitcase while I stretched out.

"I've only brought a few days' supply," You warned. "We should try to ration it, if we can."

"My dad sells the stuff, I don't think we need to worry about running out." I kicked off my shoes and wriggled into the bed. "Oh, God, mm. Can we bring this home with us."

You smirked, pulling your drug box out of your case and sitting down beside me. "Your father sells morphine?"

"Yeah, medical morphine. But don't get any ideas." I rolled my sleeve up against my bicep. "I would rather not him hear about this. About  _any_  of this."

"They'll be curious as to where your wounds came from," You said.

"Well, you can tell them  _that_  part." I squirmed when I saw the needle. "Just try to avoid the personal things."

"Last night?"

"Specifically. But I'd rather not have a heart-to-heart about my diagnosis, either. My father..." I trailed off, not really wanting to go into it.

You looked at me, a bit of incertitude in your brow. "I won't mention it."

"And wait to talk about the case until I'm there, alright?"

"Alright." You prepared the syringe.

I closed my eyes, and soon enough I felt the small prick in the crook of my arm, followed by the warm wave of morphine wisping over my skin. The pain faded gradually. I hadn't even realized how tired I was, distracted by the wounds, until sleep passed within my reach. I felt the bed tip, and I grabbed for your arm, gripping tightly the fabric of your shirt.

"And-... Don't-... Afgh-..." I murmurred, my head lolling to the side.

"Alright, John." You leaned forward, pressing your lips against my skin.

* * *

 

My childhood had from the very start been littered with references as to how alike my father and I had been. I have his same squat shoulders and square face, and though I'm just a smidge taller than him, his perpetual cold glare cuts a few inches from my posture. He was seated in his large armchair, an ashtray nearly filled set on the table to his right. The last time I had visited, he had been begrudgingly trying to get away from smoking, but now it seemed like he had begrudgingly gone back to it, and was filling the mouth of his pipe with tobacco with a frown carved deeply into his face.

"Do you smoke, son?" He asked, pointedly toward you.

"I do not." You answered.

"Good. It's damn torture for the lungs."

He cleared his throat and brought his pipe to his lips, flicking his lighter with a round, calloused thumb, and sat back deeper into his chair. You answered him by broadening your own shoulders. I felt a bit strange seeing you two together for the first time, especially at this angle, with the two of you sitting isolated and robust in your armchairs. The pipe fell to my father's lap.

"I know that Patricia wants to believe that this little visit is nothing more than a holiday," He started, motioning toward Mum, "But it's not like John just to come around without a reason. Over the phone you sounded pressed for time."

You nodded. "But I have a feeling that you know why we're here, Dr. Watson."

My father puffed a bit of smoke from his nose. He shared a glance with Mum.

"It's the deal, isn't it?" She asked.

He shook his head. "I know who you are, Mr. Holmes. You're a detective. One of the finest, or so I've heard. Your name has come up a few times in my circles, and I'll applaud you for your skills. But I have no use for them here, and I do not want a detective meddling with the affairs of my business or the business of my partners."

"I have reason to believe that some aspect of your business is causing direct harm to John," You inserted.

"I am aware. But as I'll state again, this is not a place for a detective."

"Sir," You began.

"I don't want to hear any more of it." He took another draw.

"Then I won't bother you," You nodded, leaning forward onto your knees. "But allow me to update you on John. I'm sure you, being his parents, are interested."

"Sherlock." I hissed.

"He's had a bit of insomnia lately, but that can be overlooked. He's engaged. I would expect you both to be elated, but so far I've only seen affections flow from Mrs. Watson, not from her other half. Maybe it's because Dr. Watson is less relationally inclined. Maybe it's because he has more on his mind just than John. And I understand this entirely - often I find myself falling into that same predicament. But perhaps your disinterest is simply because you don't understand exactly how much danger you've indirectly imposed on John.

"Over the last weeks our house has been invaded, our privacy disrupted by burglars and spies, and John has been both poisoned and abused. He was abducted and held hostage for over forty-eight hours, where a nameless and faceless young woman subjected him to various forms of mental and physial torture. I have done everything I can thus to keep John safe, and  _sane_ , in the wake of these events, but I cannot fight an enemy I can't see."

"You cannot shock me into agreeing with you, Mr. Holmes." My father growled. "I didn't ask you to bring John here."

We all froze, and he grumbled.

"I'm not  _glad_  those things had to happen to John. I did what I could to stop it, as well. I've been far from idle, mind you. But- this is not a place for detectives, Mr. Holmes. It's a matter of pride."

"Does your pride matter more than the well-being of your son?"

He stared you down. You two were at the moment resembling angry rams, bleating and stomping your hooves, preparing to charge. Mum and I both felt the tension begin to spark, and, in an attempt to avoid a fight, she stood to walk behind my father's chair.

"Henry," She said quietly, touching his shoulder, "The boy's just trying to help. What harm would it be to tell him? John is here now, they can't hurt him here."

"We still have Harry to think about," He reminded her.

"The sooner you allow me to intervene, the sooner we can remove the threat both from your children and from yourselves," You stated.

"Amateur detective or not," He bit, "You have no  _power_  to remove any  _threat_ , and I see no usefulness putting more people in harm's way for no good reason. There is nothing you can do, and there is no way you can help us."

"Why don't you let me try."

I could tell he was beginning to give in, but he looked at me for the final opinion. "John."

I sucked up a breath. You gave me a discreet nod, and I bit my cheek. "If there's anyone who can help, it's Sherlock."

Mum patted his shoulder. "Tell him."

Dad sighed, sitting back in his chair and tapping the end of his pipe. His brow was curved, but he had resigned. Mum came back and sat down beside to me with a defiant wink as he began.

"Understand, Mr. Holmes, that you are not dealing with a man. He is in more ways a beast than he is a human being."

You folded your hands underneath your chin. "First, his name."

"Wilhem Lecuyér. He and I met in university, he was my upperclassman, hailing from a rich French family, and held the highest marks in the school. We were friends throughout our first year, but afterward my respect for him slipped. He was deceptive and repulsive, and I didn't agree with his attitude. He considered me weak and made it clear to me he did. We tended to avoid each other until I transferred to med school, which marked the end of our interactions for a little less than four decades.

"While I built my career, he built his. He's bloomed well in France, where he has invested himself chiefly into his family's wine heritage. In looking to expand his company's influence in Britain, he is interested in establishing my name behind his product. He got into contact with me about three months ago.

"I found out very quickly after his offer, however, that Wilhem's old methods hadn't changed at all since university. He was still deceptive, still selfish, and still considered me to be nothing above a pawn that he can push where he wants without consequence. I want nothing to do with him or his business, and I tried to put him off, but he has continued to try to step over me and trample over my own interests in the process. He refuses to accept that I, such a weak opponent, could dismiss him so easily."

"How does he communicate with you?" You asked.

"Face-to-face. At times over e-mail, but not often." He puffed.

"How does he approach you?"

"He brings me deals, which we might sit down to discuss for a little while, but they haven't failed to be worthless to me. If and when I deny them, he might turn the conversation idly onto John, or Harry; things that he has no reason to know. Harry's gotten a new mobile number within the last week. You two have gotten a dog. Gladstone?"

I nodded, feeling a bit cold.

He flicked his lighter. "Wilhem made it very clear that he had my children under his thumb without handing me anything that could be used as evidence."

You tapped your lip. "So, then, what was your plan?"

"I waited. I watched for an opening, a hole in his defenses, but as time passed I started to run out of options. Things started happening, and he established that if I went to the authorities with a complaint, it would get worse."

"Then we should wrap this case up quickly, for the safety of everyone involved." You rubbed your hands together. "It's been a while since I've had to deal with a businessman."

"Sherlock," I whispered.

"Sorry. There are several different ways to entrap a businessman in his own web, many of which are open to us. My brother's career has been built around dealing with criminals like this, and so he will undoubtedly be an irreplacable asset. But because of the delicate nature of the case, I'll wait to contact him when I'm sure that we'll require his services. For now, I think our best move would be to pay a visit to the Lecuyér residency ourselves."

"No. That would give him too much of an advantage." My father shifted, thinking. "There's a New Year's dinner scheduled for tomorrow evening in Cardiff. Wilhem will be attending, along with dozens of others - some of the top men in our circle. Patrcia and I hadn't been planning on accepting the invitation due the circumstances, but we can always change our plans. It wouldn't be difficult to secure another ticket for yourself."

"Perfect. I'll attend alongside the two of you and be introduced to Lecuyér firsthand. If I can't pick out the web, I'll employ the skills of my brother."

"But if anything goes wrong, the plan is shot. Wilhem won't be able to be fooled once he's caught a scent. He's a sociopath."

You smirked. "I have plenty of experience with those."

* * *

I've got 99 problems but a review ain't one.

Watch for the next update.


	27. Chapter 27

Longer chapter than usual because so much had to go in this time. You're welcome for getting it in on time.

Asphyxia is almost done and I'm ecstatic. I have to start thinking about what I'm going to do after this. Hmm.

Enjoy this update.

* * *

"No, John. It's much too dangerous for you to go, dangerous as much to your physical health as mental. You're Wilhem Lecuyér's biggest target, and I can't determine what his reaction will be if he sees that you're present. We'll be in a neutral zone, but that doesn't give us a big enough advantage to justify including another variable. He could poison you again, or, worse, seize you again."

"I'm in more danger of being seized if I stay here alone than if I stay with you," I argued, sitting down on the bed. "and I don't want to be tied up here while the rest of you finish my case."

"It's our case, and it's in the best intentions."

"We have the same intentions. Let me go."

You sighed, shooting me a short glare before pulling on your woolen pajamas. "I don't think Lecuyér will be too difficult to dissect, though we will have to consider that Anne is still in his custody. We want to surround him in a way to cut him off quickly from communication with whatever underlings he may have, so that they do not recieve any kind of word that may endanger her or any of us. E, if not present at the party itself, would be our biggest concern."

"E." I muttered.

"Once Lecuyér is taken, E will be stomped out." You straightened your shoulders. "I'm looking forward to it."

You ran a hand through your hair and walked off into the bathroom.

With slight difficulty I followed, gripping the handle of my crutch as I shuffled into a walk. Thankfully our rooms were wide, so I was able to slip past you without much of a problem. You were busily scrubbing at your teeth, and I set my crutch against the lip of the countertop, bending down to rinse my face.

My eyes flashed toward the mirror, and I bit back a breath. Two dark eyes blinked back, the right surrounded by a deep purple-and-yellow bruise set against a gash cut into the skin just underneath. The bridge of my nose was busted open, my lip split in two places, and contusions smeared my skin from my temple all the way to my shoulder. I looked like a corpse. I had avoided examining my injuries before, but now, face-to-face with them, they scared me more than I expected. My stomach did a flip, and your hands grasped my shoulders as I reached out for the countertop.

"John?" Your breath still smelled like mint. "Are you alright?"

"Look at me," I croaked. "How can you even  _look_  at me."

Tears filled my eyes. You glanced at the mirror and then pressed your face to mine, your creamy skin looking even more pristine against my own discolored mess, but I started to see more of the purple under your eyes, and the redness around your lips.

"It's not permanent," You eased.

I bent my neck forward, trying to hide my trembling lips, but you knew. You ran your hand along my back.

"Come back into the bedroom, John. You're tired."

"I'm not  _tired_ , I'm just... ergh." I shuddered and pressed my hand against my chest. "I just..."

"Come lay down, John." You were stern now. "John."

I resigned and let you lead me into the next room, pushing my weak legs forward. The room seemed too warm, and so you went to put out the fire while I sat back onto our bed. The golden glow of the flames died down and the temperature began to drop almost immediately. You sat down beside me. For a moment we were quiet, just sitting arm-to-arm with each other, until you brushed my hand and spoke.

"You'll heal, John."

"I know, but..."

"You'll get better. You'll recover."

" _Will_  I, Sherlock?"

You didn't answer. I reached over and wrapped my arms around you, pulling you closer and burying my face in the fabric of your shirt. Your arms snaked around me, and I felt your fingertips trail along my back.

"I'm sorry." I whispered. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I know you're still fighting."

"I hurt you."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not fine. I'm sorry. I just-..."

You placed your hands over my shoulders. "It's alright, John. I understand."

"No, you don't. You don't understand." I covered my face. "I hurt you. I'm still hurting you. I can't stop."

You took my hands and held them tightly in yours. There was a flash of seriousness in your eyes that surprised me, and made me even more ashamed than before. "I do understand, John."

You sat forward and brought our lips together, the soft mint of your breath seeping into my nose as your hand caressed the back of my neck. It was gentle, the smooth edges of your mouth leaving warm patches on my skin, carefully laying me down against the pillows. Fear creeped up my throat, but your soft hands reassued me, and I let my jaw slack as you brushed against my cheek. Then you were above me, tears sparkling in your eyes and emotion choking your voice.

"John."

I looked up at you, and you gripped the sides of my head with shaking fingers, holding me pinned against the bed. Your eyes were the color of shattered glass, threatening to spill over, your skin beginning to flush. Your cold exterior had fallen apart, and I pressed my hands against your chest, trying to keep you together. Your voice trembled.

"I almost lost you."

You leaned down and put your head against my neck, allowing your body to rest on top of mine as I held you. This kind of breakdown was new for you, and I didn't quite know what to do except pull you closer and breathe you in. Something told me that I had broken you. Something else told me that you had broken me. But there we were, curled up in each other, satisfied with just the touch of the other's skin, and I wasn't sure it was wrong either way.

It helped, feeling your weight on my chest, the smell of your hair and your breath. You were there, all of you, within my grasp, and you weren't leaving. I twisted my head around and kissed you, squeezing my eyes closed and focusing on the sensation of your lips on my lips, my neck. Desperately, sloppily, you kissed me again and again, and your lips became salty with your tears.

Then you stopped, separated us, and rolled over onto your side. You got up quickly to shut off the lights, then pulled back the covers and engulfed us both, reaching out for my hips while I searched for your mouth. Our limbs entangled, and we laid there together, with your lips against my nose or my head against your chest, the rhythm of our hearts our mutual promise.

We would finish this. Tomorrow was the last day, tomorrow this freak show would be overwith. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. But tonight, we would sleep.

I breathed in.

* * *

The next day was slow. My parents' home, warm and bright, was decorated with bright gold ribbons and Christmas holly that made the whole place smell fresh. The winter hadn't been so vicious out here, and though the lawn looked yellow from the mud, the sky was a brilliant blue, with a crest of gray clouds in the east. Mum, you, and I were sitting in their kitchen picking at our breakfast plates, sharing idle conversation and accustoming ourselves to each other in a subtle sort of way.

Mum had made a point of spending time with me, filling me in on all the recent gossip and asking about work back in London. I didn't mind. She was a sweet woman, thin as a rail but with plenty of vigor. She had been diagnosed with anorexia when she was a teenager and had struggled back-and-forth with it her whole life, but remained generally hopeful throughout the ordeal. I was happy to see that she was improving again, if only in baby steps. Her fingers, hollow as needles, didn't quiver like they used to.

"Have you kept on playing your clarinet, John?" She asked, pushing around a bit of egg.

I chuckled. "No, not exactly. I sold mine after med school, and the things are so expensive to buy."

"Well, we have one in the music room, you should use it sometime before you go." Mum smiled.

"You play the clarinet?" You asked, perplexed.

I shrugged. "In secondary school, yeah, but not much since then."

"Do you play, Mr. Sherlock?" Mum asked.

"Not clarinet. Violin."

"Violin!"

"He's the best I've ever heard," I nodded.

"Very best? Well, it might take some convincing for me." She brushed off her hands. "How about you play for us? We have a violin, a pretty little white one, it looks just gorgeous with our other strings. I'm a bit of a collector. Though, it may be out of tune. I don't play myself."

"I can tune it by ear," You said.

Her face lit up. "I'm impressed. Let's not waste time, then. I'm sure the violin's just dying to be played."

We rose, and she led the both of us back toward our rooms, where, down another hallway and around a bend, the music room's grand doors opened. The high ceiling and wide windows made the room look enormous, while in reality it must not have been too much bigger than our own rooms. A grand piano stood proudly in one corner, and in the other were the stringed instruments, including a cello, a double-bass, a violin, and a viola. Various wind instruments were mounted on the walls around us, glittering in the sunlight. You looked like you were about to burst.

"Jesus Christ. It's a Vuillaume," You breathed.

"It is, I got it at an auction last spring." Mum said proudly, taking a seat. "There's sheet music in those cabinets there if you'll be needing any."

"I know most things by heart." You replied, starting to tune. "Do you have a request?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Do you know Bach's Partita number two?"

"Of course." You lifted the instrument to your neck.

Mum's head did it's familiar twist as the first few notes of the Partita glided from your strings, her eyes fluttering with pleasure. One of the things that had brought her the most joy in the world had always been music. Because of both her age and her disorder she's been unable to play religiously like she used to, but I remembered many scenes from my childhood of her dancing through the kitchen to Chopin or drinking tea with Mozart sweetly singing in the background. She had encouraged my sister and I to learn several different instruments, but neither of us had inherited her skill or interest. So she instead spent her time listening to discs and records on her old chunky record player and swaying around the kitchen.

Her eyes were big, and she placed her tiny hands on my leg. "Where ever did you find a man like this, John?"

I smiled. "Some crime scene somewhere."

"You weren't kidding when you said he was the best." She sighed, watching you dip with the music. "If I was only a few years younger. At least I know that you have a better taste in men than you had in women."

"Mum."

"It's true." She laughed. "None of your girlfriends were ever half as charming as Mr. Sherlock."

"Well, I can't really argue against that, can I."

She smiled and patted my knee. "I'm very happy for the both of you. I think you'll be very happy together. He reminds me a bit of your father, don't you think?"

"Dad?" I paused. What in the world would make her draw that conclusion. You had more in common with a goldfish than you had with my father.

"And, soon enough, I'm certain to have grandchildren."

"Grandchildren?" I sputtered. "It's a little early to be thinking about that."

"Never too early, sweetheart!" She clapped her hands together and hummed. "I was starting to think it would never happen. You should start thinking about adoption, shouldn't you? Or perhaps a surrogate mother? A little baby boy with Sherlock's handsome cheeks, wouldn't he be so precious! Or a little girl with blonde hair, like yours, but curly, tied up in little bows. I can picture them running around like you and Harry used to do, causing mischief. I'd spoil them every day, oh my, they'd be spoiled perfectly rotten."

"Mum, I think you're getting a bit carried away."

"Oh, shush, John! I'm enjoying this. You would have to come every year for the Christmas parties, just so I can see them. They'll eat all the cranberries, just like you used to do. You got them all over your clothes and in your hair, I used to have to wash every inch of you to make sure to get it all. It'll be the same with them, you'll see. And you must teach them to play, always teach them to play." She paused, distracted by your music. "If we pray hard enough maybe they'll inherit the skills of their father."

"We're not even married yet."

She chuckled. "That's minor. And it won't be minor much longer, will it?"

I shook my head. She looked enveloped again in the song, but my mind was elsewhere. I touched her wrist gently, and she glanced back at me.

"Can I ask you something, Mum?" I said.

"Of course you can."

I took a breath. "Can you tell me about Anne?"

Her demeanor shifted. "You mean Anne Carter?"

I nodded. Mum repositioned herself in her seat, letting a few strands of hair fall out from behind her ears. Her light smile became a thin frown, and her eyes filled with sadness.

"That poor soul. She is a sweetheart, she really is, but she's been pulled into this whole mess. I hired her in 2008 when we went to Paris, just for a little security work. We became friends and exchanged contacts when her contract was up, just in case I might need to call on her again. Her permanent was with Lecuyér, of course, and she would go with Lecuyér often to his galas, so we would be able to catch up there. Pretty, too, isn't she?"

"Yes, but... could you just explain this all to me? She told us that you hired her, to watch me?"

"No, not exactly. I offered to pay her if she kept you out of danger. I was worried sick about you, and she was more than happy to help. She kept me updated on everything that happened to you. Though," She trailed off, gently touching the gash under my eye, "it looks a bit worse in person than I'd imagined."

"You practically saved my life," I said.

"You can't give me all the credit. I just had the money." Mum smiled, then grew serious again. "That woman she works for, though, she really is the devil's child."

"Woman?"

"Yes, Wihem's daughter. Anne's her personal. Blonde, a little taller than you, I think."

I made the connection. "Have you met her?"

"A few times, not privately, of course. I can't seem to remember her name, though. I know it either started with an E or an I. Isobel? Emily? Something with that eh sound."

I nodded. Definitely E.

"I'm sorry this happened to you, John." Mum said quietly.

"It's not your fault. You've done your best."

"But I just wish I could have done more." She grasped my hands. "How are you doing?"

I paused for a moment, then avoided eye contact. I had heard this question before, and I always resented it, because I hadn't yet found a way to get out from under it. Mum and I had always thought alike, and so it was easy for us to sympathize with and understand each other, but that also meant we knew each other's tricks. Usually I would be able to move past my discomfort, but today I felt isolated from her, as if letting her scale my walls would cause more harm than it would repair. Her eyes were full of care, but I ducked under them.

"I'm alright."

She pursed her lips and squeezed a little. "I know you can't just 'be alright', not with everything happening. Are you alright? You're still eating, you're not hurting yourself, you're not doing anything you shouldn't be doing, are you?"

"No, mum." I bit the inside of my cheek.

She continued to watch me, skeptical.

"I'm okay." I reassured. "There's just a lot to deal with right now. Once it settles down, I'll get better. I promise."

She nodded slowly.

I patted her hand. "Don't worry about me. I've got this under control."

"That's good. But, John, if there ever comes a time when you can't control things, promise me you'll remember that you have someone you can lean onto."

"I know. You and Dad."

"No." She motioned with her head toward you. "Sherlock."

I blinked. "Sherlock?"

"When I was struggling, at first I thought that I could battle it by myself. I truly believed it, and, given, I accomplished great things alone. But I just couldn't beat it. No matter what I fought through, no matter how hard I wrestled, I could never do it alone. Of course, I never admitted that, but your father admitted it for me. He came in behind me and helped me fight when I was too weak to keep going. And I'm not saying he won the battle for me, but without him, I would have never been able to get this far. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

She moved forward just a bit and wrapped her arm around mine. "He understands where I am and what I need, and that's really what counts. He doesn't fight for me, but he gives me the love and the support I need to fight my battles myself. That's what I see in your Sherlock, the same thing I saw in Henry." She patted my arm. "Depend on him, John."

We fell quiet, Mum transfixed and I distrait. I kept aligning my mental images of both you and my father, but I didn't see the lines that my mother had been drawing. My father was cold, stubborn, disinterested, and closed-off. You could be stubborn, and sometimes it was hard to talk to you, but you had always shown a warm sort of interest that made you Sherlock Holmes. The more I tried to take my mother's advice to heart, the more frustrated I grew, until I finally gave up on trying to decipher it altogether.

You drew your song to a close.

* * *

Later that afternoon, while you were changing into your suit for the evening, I decided to take a short walk around the house to calm myself. I had been nervous for the past several hours in anticipation of our meeting, and though an extra dose of morphine had helped, I still felt a little unwell. I tapped the foot of my cane across the lineoulium floors, and carefully made my way over through the left wing of the house.

Through the pillars of the wide sitting room, I spotted my father several meters away, gazing through a window and smoking his pipe. He wrung his wrist against the collar of his shirt, and the crook of his brow was drawn up tight, but he didn't notice me, so I didn't bother him. Smoke rose through his thick grey moustache, and as he gently exhaled, he let the smoke billow toward the ceiling in a cloud. He looked distant, and a small bit irritable, but I should have been used to that by now.

My whole childhood my father had stood like that, a stone statue in the distance, a figure of strength and discipline. Whether he had a pipe in his hand, or a newspaper, or a can of beer, or a glass of wine, his cold eyes ceaselessly reminded me of the demands he had instilled in me from the day I was born. He wanted me to be strong, he wanted me to stand tall, he wanted me to stop crying and to behave like the man I was. Mum said he was so strict with me because it was the way he showed love. But no matter how much I wanted to believe it, I still squirmed under his hand.

Something about the light from the window brought back the memory of you standing before our flat window. My mother had seen my father in you since she first met you, but how? She had spoken in complete confidence of your similarities, but why? There was nothing alike between the cold, uncaring man smoking his pipe by the window and the tall, vibrant man playing his instrument against the crackling of the fire.

Perhaps I had been viewing my father in the wrong light. It was this light, here, that I truly started to see him - not as a stone statue, but as a man, consumed by friction and aged by concern. My mother knew him for who he really was, she knew the man inside the stone, while I had never bothered to search for him.

Unexpectedly he turned, pulling the pipe from his lips. I flinched, thinking for sure he had noticed me, but his gaze was elsewhere. "Are you sure this is a good idea."

"Sherlock will take care of him." Mum emerged from behind a pillar, holding my father's black bow-tie in her hands. "Everything will be fine."

She walked up to him and put the tie around his neck, fixing his collar over it and starting to tie. My father still looked cross, but he held his pipe away from Mum so that she wouldn't get the smoke in her hair. His eyes didn't seem so dark when they were fixed on her. She smiled up at him, but he didn't return the gesture.

"We should just forget about this whole thing. Give Wilhem the deal. Tell him to fuck off and get his damn daughter out of John's life."

"Sherlock will fix it. I know he will."

"You have a lot of faith in him for only knowing him for a day."

"I talked to him a bit when he first came." She finished his bow-tie and smiled. "He reminds me a lot of you, you know."

He made a face. "Please."

She chuckled and patted his chest.

I crutched away from the two of them, hoping not to interrupt their conversation or make myself known. It was a little funny, hearing their banter and realizing that yes, of course you would have spoken to Mum. I was silly to think you hadn't, especially after hearing of her confidence in you. My mum was intelligent, and sometimes I underestimated that, but now reminded of it I had a feather of happiness in my chest. She liked you. Through your layers of childish and smartass, she saw your gemstone heart, just like I had. That made me happy.

Upon reaching our rooms, you had nearly finished getting dressed, but were having a little bit of trouble with your tie.

"Good, John, would you fix this damn thing?" You huffed.

"You would think you've never worn a tie before." I sighed, limping over. I leaned my crutch against the dresser so that I could use both hands, and you watched me suspiciously.

"This isn't a good idea," You warned. "You should stay back. Keep yourself under guard."

"I will be under guard. I'll be under your guard." I finished with the tie. "I'm not changing my mind."

You adjusted it in the mirror, then nodded.

"You talked to my mum," I mentioned.

"Yes?" You picked a piece of dust off the shoulder of my suit. "Did you expect me to do nothing while you slept?"

"No." I chuckled and sat down beside the window.

"That walk cheered you up quite a bit."

I shrugged. "Guess it did."

You gave me a look, then dropped the conversation. You pulled your suit jacket on as you walked back across the room, picking my gun from the inside of your suitcase and turning it over in your hand. Gently you loaded it, giving it one last cock before lifting it to the light. I watched with a sinking feeling in my stomach, an anxious chill quickly replacing the first giddy warmth as your fingers caressed the cold metal of its trigger.

You turned.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

* * *

Out the back door, goddamn, but I review anyway.

Watch for the next update.


	28. Chapter 28

 

Sorry again for the shitty update schedule. I ACTUALLY GOT IT IN ON SUNDAY GOD FUCKING DAMN. But I'm completely done with theater now so I won't be leaving again until it's finished. (Or at least I won't have any more excuses.)

 

I wanted to address a few notes I received during the break.

 

The first was about my use of crutch/cane? I was under the impression that the Brit word for "cane" was "crutch", sort of like "jumper" and "sweater", but I guess I'm wrong? Oops. I tried Googling it without luck, but if anyone with knowledge of the fact could correct or affirm me, that would be awesome. I'm always open to lessons in proper British English. For this chapter, I'll use cane.

 

The second was for my mention of Xanax versus Prozac. I actually realized that mistake about halfway through, but I didn't have the time to correct it. Turns out my friend had been taking Xanax as a fast-action treatment, and she and I had a discussion about it that helped me fully understand how it worked. (For those not briefed in anxiety medication, Xanax is a pill taken for panic attacks which acts immediately, while Prozac is taken for depression and typically takes a few months or so to work properly.) When I go through to re-edit the fic I'll fix that, and possibly add in the separate uses of both pills. I hope it didn't bother anyone else, haha. Thanks for calling me out on it.  

 

Also, someone mentioned the letter, and I just wanted to let you know that it'll get explained shortly, so don't worry.

 

Thanks for the feedback, all of you. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The party began at eight-thirty, sharp, when the sky was dark and white snowflakes fell slowly, illuminated by the bright lights of the lawn. The estate we were visiting was owned by a friend of my father, and seemed almost twice the size of my parents', with high vaulted ceilings and near-golden marble floors. Guests were entertained in a wide ballroom, where a string band played off to the right ("Pachelbel," you noted), and the vast middle was cleared of furniture to allow for dancing. Expensive suits and floor-length dresses sparkled underneath crystal chandeliers. I felt slightly underdressed, even in my brand-new suit, and suddenly Mum's shimmering peach dress didn't seem so grossly extravagant.

 

People around us gave me strange looks, no doubt from the state of my face, but you had told me not to worry about passing glances. We weren't there to impress anyone, and we didn't need to worry about our appearance. We were there to finish the case, and finish the case we would.

 

Mum stepped close to me and wrapped her arm in mine, tugging my head low to hear her whisper. "There are many prominent people here. Mr. Schwann, a Swiss banker, very influential inside the European Union, there he is with his two daughters. Mrs. Adeline Ross is over near the strings, she's the wife of the French dignitary, and her son Abel is beside her. There near the door is Dr. Westel Haren, he's spent most the last few years working with Russian scientists outside Volgograd."

 

"Are there always so many political figures?" I asked, hushedly. "I thought Dad sold medicine."

 

"He does. But medicine needs money, and where there's money, there's politics." She stretched her neck to look around. "I don't see Wilhem. But you'll know him when you see him. And I'm sure he'll know you."

 

I nodded. 

 

The crowd made it a little difficult for you to survey the room, and you gave an exasperated huff. "I need a better look." You spun around offered your hand to Mum. "If Dr. Watson doesn't mind, may I have a dance?"

 

Mum grinned, then glanced at my father, who waved them both off.

 

You led Mum gently toward the dance, leaving my father and I standing there quietly, surrounded by bustling people. I watched them with a little anxiety, preparing myself and timing my breaths, while Dad polished the bulb of his pipe, regarding whether or not to save his tobacco for later. 

 

"It's best if you stay within arm's reach of either Holmes or myself," He mentioned, not bothering to look at me. "We don't want anything unexpected to happen."

 

"I will."

 

"And keep him on a short leash when you can. There are plenty of people here who he does not want to make angry."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

He glanced at me then, giving me a once-over with a disapproving squint before raising his pipe to his lips. "You look too tense."

 

"Sorry." 

 

He turned on his heel and walked toward the seating. I lost sight of you in the crowd as I tried to keep on my father's heels. It was a bit helpless, being confined to a guard, and it didn't suit me at all. I pushed around on my cane, trying not to step on toes or make too much noise. 

 

Endless people brushed by, some of them taking the time to say hello to my father, but none quite concerned enough to bother with me. The room moved around us, not as if we were invisible, but as if we were moving targets. I saw my father's wary glance as he walked, letting smoke rise through his nose. He was nervous, too. Not my kind of nervous, hands-shaking and stomach-curling nervous. He was jaw-clenching, smoking-three-clumps-of-tobacco nervous.

 

A man cut through the crowd in our direction, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up straight. I knew it was him from the second I saw him, his brown hair neatly combed, his face smooth-shaven, his teeth white, his suit crisp, his tie sparkling gold, and the bushel of holly that was pinned to his breast definitely smelling quite unpleasant. 

 

"Dr. Watson. You're looking well."

 

I froze. Momentarily I forgot that I was not the only Dr. Watson facing him. My father shook his outstretched hand. "Good evening, Wilhem."

 

"This must be your son." The man's eyes roamed. "I'm so glad I have the privilege to meet you in person."

 

"Thank you," I replied. 

 

"John, this is Wilhem Lecuyér." My father motioned. 

 

"I'm sure he already knows who I am." 

 

He smiled. Lips long and thin, his French accent rolled from his mouth like mucus. That holly gnawed at my nose. Maybe, I suspected, he had worn it on purpose. He knew my senses were hyperactive. He was the one who had made them that way. I curled my nose and quickly rubbed at it, avoiding direct eye contact with the man and instead watching the crowd for you.

 

But he dragged me back in with a click of his tongue. "I've kept up with your blog, doctor. You write very well."

 

"Thank you." I pulled my cane closer to myself. 

 

"And should I be looking forward to a meeting with the detective this evening?" He asked. "I have been looking forward to finding out just how fantastic his gifts of perception really are."

 

I flashed him a smile. "He won't disappoint you." 

 

"I do hope not." 

 

For just a moment, his smile morphed into a snarl. His lips curled like a lion, eyes bright with interest, watching me like slab of meat. My throat went dry as he combed his claws through his hair. 

 

You were beside me, suddenly. Wilhem's gaze averted up to you.

 

"Good evening," He nodded.

 

"Hello." You thrust out your hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

 

He touched you. "Wilhem Lecuyér."

 

The two of you gazed at each other a moment, your eyes flickering over him and his slithering over you. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, but I recognized it, and my father recognized it, pulling Mum's looped arm closer to his waist.

 

"Are you enjoying the party, Wilhem?" She asked, smiling, and a little out-of-breath.

 

"Quite well, yes." He nodded to her. "And yourself?"

 

"Well, we've only just arrived, but Sherlock here is-- ah," She panted. "Very fine at dancing. I'm a bit tired. Would you go get me a glass of that punch, John?" 

 

I stretched around. "Where?"

 

You placed your hand on the small of my back. "I'll show you."

 

With a short swat you moved me toward the left, and I fell behind my father before Wilhem could make an interjection. You led me away, cutting through the crowd with your hands hovering near my shoulders, my hands finally starting to shake. I knew that I wasn't in danger, but something about that scent of holly made my skin crawl. You seemed just as bothered.

 

"Did you get anything?" I asked, moving closer as we walked.

 

"History of violence. Abusive father, absent mother. No siblings. Widower. Divorced, twice." You glanced back, just before Lecuyér disappeared behind the crowd. "Three times. Two children, one girl and one boy. Underdeveloped morally, but cunning mentally. Devious. He's dressed up extraordinarily well tonight, he's looking forward to something. He's consciously preparing himself, grooming himself to be at the top of his game."

 

"Or maybe he groomed himself because it's a  _party_ ," I retorted.

 

"No. He got his hair cut, expensive cut. Maybe he cut it for the holiday? No. Fingers, manicured. Teeth freshly whitened. Eyebrows waxed. Also, massage. He was tense. Looking forward to something. Thinking about it, constantly." You scowled as we reached the bar and poured a glass of the punch. "Rehearsed, too. He's rehearsed this, over and over. Meeting you. Meeting me. Gotten information on you, looked into your blog. Looking forward to you, then."

 

I turned back to look. "Can we take him?"

 

"I hope so." You sipped.

 

I caught a look at your glass. "I thought you said not to ingest anything."

 

"I told you not to ingest anything." You rolled the drink around on your tongue and then paused to pour Mum a glass. "Seems alright. Too sweet."

 

A soft brush pulled my attention away from you and toward the young woman approaching from the right. Her eyes passed quickly over you and I, a small smile playing on her lips as she approached the table, a glass of dark red wine in her hand.

 

"Hello," She said, eyes locking with yours.

 

You looked over her. "Hello."

 

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before," She chirped.

 

You shrugged and took another drink. 

 

I watched the dialogue with my lips in a flat line. It wasn't unusual for you to attract flirts, but with everything else going on tonight it seemed like overkill on my nerves. I stepped a little closer to you, but her eyes were fixed, filled with amber and gold. She extended her hand to you.

 

"Elouise," She smiled.

 

Wait. I recognized that voice. Her eyes met mine with a glint.

 

"My, John, you're not looking well. Do you need to sit down?"

 

I glanced at you and back at her, unsure of what to do. I angled myself away. My hands stopped shaking.

 

You examined her for a long moment, then, with a small grin on your face, took her hand. "I've heard a lot of things about you."

 

"Oh, I'd doubt it." Elouise bent her neck to the side, letting some of her hair spill out from around her ear. Her lips parted, just slightly, as you brought her hand to your mouth and gently kissed the gemstone of her silver ring. "Though, I have been looking forward to meeting you."

 

You brushed your thumb against her knuckles. "You're more beautiful than I'd expected."

 

"As are you. Such gorgeous cheekbones."

 

You let go of her hand, and the two of you exchanged a familiar glance. It was as if the two of you had stepped up onto an entirely different plane that made it impossible for me to follow. I touched your elbow, but you felt cold. Elouise's aura turned my stomach, and her out-of-reach expression didn't help.

 

She stood like a cat, her shoulders back and chest forward, neck bent gracefully. Her eyes sparkled with a keen I didn't see in her father; even looking closely, I didn't see much resemblance, but there was something about the way her gaze slipped across your figure. Her blonde hair was the color of wheat-fields, her skin smooth and jaw thin, her lips the color of her wine, and her eyes the color of the sun. 

 

"Do you dance, Mr. Holmes?" She asked.

 

"I do." You extended you arm. "May I have the privilege?"

 

"A gentleman, too." She smiled. "Take my glass, would you, John?"

 

She held her wine out to me, and I took it, biting the inside of my cheek. "Don't let me interrupt you, by all means."

 

You cast me a glance before striding off, side-by side with Elouise. 

 

I muttered a curse at the two of you and turned back toward my parents. The crowd had swallowed them up, and I spent a minute or two stretching my neck and trying to spot them. The people around me ignored me, which was good, but it gave Mum an opportunity to catch me completely off-guard when she tapped me on the arm from behind. I nearly spilt Elouise's wine all over her dress.

 

"No need to jump," She giggled, turning to the bar. "I asked for punch, sweetheart, not wine."

 

"I didn't--" I stopped, looking down at the glass. "Nevermind. Where's Dad?"

 

"That's why I came over here." Mum poured herself a glass and stepped closer to me. "They've gone up to the west library."

 

"Alone?"

 

"Yes. Gone up for a smoke; at least, that's what Wilhem said. There wasn't much from for him to say no, you should've heard his tone. Almost sinister." She sipped. "It really is too bad that his daughter's been brought up under that kind of man. She really is quite beautiful. A very charming young woman."

 

I nodded, trying to find you in the dance, but the crowd had swallowed you, too.

 

"Well, John, you keep an eye out, alright?" Mum patted my arm again. "Oh, look, there's Laura by the window. Do you remember Laura?"

 

"But, Mum, I mean, I'm not supposed to be alone." I strained.

 

"Then go after your father." She whispered, then picked up her neck. "I'm going to say hello. Don't drink too much now, John, it'll upset your stomach."

 

With that, she strode off, leaving me with a cane and a wineglass, my fingers cold by both Elouise's appearance and my own sudden isolation. Everyone around me now became a threat, and I could feel the alarms ringing with every passing. I had two options. I could drag you out from the dancing, or at least move to stay within your eyesight; or, I could follow my father and his threatenee into an unfamiliar house and hope for the best.

 

"Bollocks," I muttered. If only to be rebellious, I sniffed Elouise's wine and took a long swig, beginning to maneuver my way toward the doors of the west wing.

 

* * *

Crack my head and break my reviews.

Starting to look a bit like a chess game, is it?

I SWEAR ON GOD THAT I WILL UPDATE ON THURSDAY. Only two left to go. See you then.


	29. Chapter 29

Buckle in. Hopefully this will be the finalé you guys have been waiting for.

* * *

By the time I had found the library, they had already been inside for several minutes. I heard their voices from the hall, where the noise of the string band was only a whisper in the background, and I crept along as softly as I could, careful with my cane. They didn't notice me. I had to hold my breath to hear.

"You're being quite obstinate for the position you're in, Watson." I heard Wilhem say. "It's courageous of you."

"There's nothing else you can offer me to make me agree. Take your business elsewhere." My father puffed.

A door lay straight ahead of me, and as I inched it open I felt the cool air from inside flutter through my suit jacket. The door was sheltered behind a solid row of bookshelves, and thus hid me from Wilhem's sight for the time being. I was able to slip through without much trouble and closed it behind me, falling in behind the shelf.

The library was immense, its two open stories connected by twin staircases on either side. Huge windows stretched from top to bottom looking out onto the lawn and, further, the skyline, which was by now blurred by the falling snow. Lightning flashed, succeeded by huge claps of thunder, illuminating every crevice of the room and intensifying every shadow.

Wilhem watched the window from where he stood with a strange sort of reverence. "Thundersnow. How appropriate."

My father looked at him from his chair, holding the barrel of his pipe tightly in his hand. Beneath his heavy brow his eyes were hawk-sharp and nearly bubbling over with anger. His square frame sat taut although he was leaned on one arm, smoke slowly rising from between his teeth, his fingers and feet still. Wilhem was on his feet, pacing easily, his eyes never leaving the storm outside the glass.

"I've never actually seen a thundersnow myself. I was a bit unconvinced before that they existed at all. But now that I see it... My. What a fearsome thing it is."

"Wilhem." Dad growled. "Get on with it."

"Be patient, my friend. Appreciate the moment."

Dad sat forward, pipe still gripped in his hand, and put his elbows on the sitting-table. "I know you were the one who abducted John."

Wilhem paused, watching my father, and then laughed. "That's a fantastic assumption, Watson, since I've never laid a finger on your boy."

"Maybe not a finger, but you sent a man. You arranged for it. You did that to him, and you're going to pay for it, I'll make damn sure of it."

"Be careful not to let your tongue get away from you." He sat down.

"This  _blackmail_  has gone on long enough." Dad hissed. "Who else do you need to hurt to get your point across? If you think that this pressure could make me agree to your pathetic  _deal_  you're mistaken. You're a miserable man, and you will get nothing more from me. There is no more negotiating. You have no more chances."

"I don't think  _courageous_  is quite the right word to use," Wilhem murmured. "I think  _suicidal_  is more like it."

"I'm willing to protect my children and my family regardless of the risks it might have to my own interests. It's more than you can say for yourself."

"I'm not sure about that."

"You've turned your own daughter into a remorseless lizard of a woman to use your own benefit and your own purposes."

"Can you say you haven't? Except, of course, Harry's not exactly of much benefit to you, is she."

Light. Sound. Rumblings echoed through the sky, accenting the silence now fallen between the men. My father still sat forward, his elbows straight and brow still firm, with Wilhem's snake-like eyes roaming across him. The Frenchman's thin fingers drummed against the glossy oak, his thin lips stretched into a tiny smirk, the shadows beneath his eyes darker than ever under the light of the moon.

"In a way, you're right, Watson. There will be no more negotiating. But you are the one who has no more chances. You will agree to my terms, tonight, and you will sign where I tell you to sign, or you will not need to worry about 'protecting' your family any longer, because you won't have one."

"You won't touch my family." Dad said. "I'm not playing games. I will have you arrested."

"With what case, Watson? There is no case. There is no evidence. You can't win a battle you can't prove ever existed."

" _I'll_  prove it."

I pushed out from behind the shelf with a little difficulty. Both Wilhem and my father turned to look at me, but neither seemed quite surprised. Wilhem was half-amused that I had chosen to interrupt him, and my father was half-murderous that I had followed them there in the first place. But my heart was leaping from my chest and I wanted nothing else except to get my father out of the heat and to get myself out of isolation, at least for the time being.

"We  _have_  a case, Lecuyér, because you decided to fuck with the fiancé of a world-renowned detective who would like nothing more right now than to beat your ass out to kingdom come." I declared. "I  _am_  evidence, I  _am_  proof, and I'm all they need to get you into court and to get you into trial. You really should've killed me when you got the chance, cause I'm going to be the death of you, and I'll make sure you suffer for what you've done."

He looked at me. That smell of holly hit me again. Thick, sickening holly. His snake-like eyes, wriggling between my mind and his, connecting us for one long moment before he spoke.

"You're right again. Very good at being right, you two. You are the only one who can make the case. But have you trapped me? No, not quite. Argall?"

The gun came first, its metallic mouth sliding around the edge of the room. It was small, but two big hands supported it, lined with scar tissue and old bruises. The sight of Argall turned my stomach sour. He looked nearly healed now, though he still walked with favor to one leg, his shoulders were broad and his face firm. He leveled the gun at me as he approached, stepping slowly, and once I was within his reach, yanked me toward him by the arm. The nuzzle of his pitol rested like a cold stone against the nape of my neck. I shot my father a frenzied look.

Elouise followed in from the same direction as Argall, walking with her head held high, carefully reaching up to let the rest of her hair fall down around her shoulders. She gave her father a curt nod as she approached him, then turned her attention onto me. "Hello again, John. I sure have missed getting to play with you."

I gripped my cane tighter and considered hitting her with it. "Where's Sherlock?" I demanded.

"Oh, he's around here somewhere." She smirked. "Don't worry, I didn't do anything to him. In fact, I gave him a head start."

"For what?"

"Running." She smiled. "He's quite updated now on your position, yours and your father's. He knows what's at stake and he knows what has to happen in order for you and Mrs. Watson to go free. If I were him, I would've started running ages ago."

"Sherlock doesn't run." I defended.

"Then I guess he's not as smart as I thought he was," She replied. With a small twirl, she redirected herself toward my father and set a document down in front of him. A large red seal was in wax on the front. "Sign at the bottom. I'm sure that once you've come to realize your position, your opinion will be reconsidered."

"Thank you, Elouise." Wilhem said.

"Of course, Papá." She walked farther from the table.

"I already  _told_  you, I'm not signing any of your damn agreements." Dad barked. "Let John leave."

"Are you sure you want that?" Wilhem asked. "This might just be the last time you ever see him."

He turned to me, his eyes frustrated and distant. I gave my head a sharp twist, but Argall pressed the gun deeper into my neck, and my breath caught. Elouise cast me back a glance, and Wilhem folded his fingers, narrowing his eyes at my father, removing a pen from within his suit pocket and sliding it across the table. The page was waiting. Wilhem was winning. He was standing on the cusp, his chest broad, looking down at his opponent, now eyeing his surrender.

"If I do this, you'll stop this barbaric blackmail," He said, slowly.

"Of course." Wilhem smiled. "All I need is your name."

I tried to speak out, but Argall tightened his grip on me, and the pain from my arm made my head spin. Dad didn't stop to look at me again; he had made his decision, and he took the pen up off the table.

You then decided it was time for your grand entrance. I spotted you on the upper floor out of the corner of my eye, and so had Elouise. You were idly pacing close to the rail, a leather-bound book between your hands, your gaze connected to the pace but your voice floating out to interrupt my father's motion. "Two of them. How interesting."

Both Wilhem and my father now looked up at you. Lecuyér adjusted himself in his chair. "How nice of you to join us."

"Sorry it took so long. I was misinformed that the library was in the east wing. A bit embarrassing." You snapped the book closed and began descending the stairs. "Don't bother signing that page, Dr. Watson, I've got this all sorted. Ms. Elouise has helped me quite a bit with that. And John-" You paused, looking me over. "You just can't avoid getting yourself into messes, can you."

I made a face. You set down your book as Wilhem stood, brushing off his jacket while you straightened your shoulders. The two of you met eyes for the second time, and, not needing another examination, you began a slow spiral around the scene.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I do believe you've prepared yourself?" Wilhem waved his hand through the air. "Go ahead, then."

"Thank-you." Your eyes flashed. "You're a very intelligent man, Lecuyér. Sure-footed, knowledgeable, with a very acute sense of pride; we wouldn't have gotten along at all if you weren't a man such as you are."

"Of business?"

"Of crime. You're intelligent, and you were always wealthy, but there was something important about those darker deals. It wasn't that they were attractive, it was that you were  _bored_. You were bored and you were clever. You've played a good game; you probably would have won if you hadn't overlooked the problem of the family on which you chose to prey."

Wilhem held his hands together. "The Watsons weren't a challenge."

"Of course not, not to you. The Watsons are a family of soldiers and doctors, loyal to their cause and sensitive to their surroundings, and you've exploited them and pushed them in every way you wanted because you knew that you could. That does not make you smart, that makes you unsuspecting."

You patted the surface of the book on the table. I realized now that it was a Bible.

"Henry Watson knew that you would try to push him into a corner, and that you were willing to go to great lengths in order to get what you wanted. He also knew that you could. He didn't want John accidentally getting pulled into the crossfire, and so he commissioned his wife to write a letter in order to discourage communication between the two and their son. He isolated himself to isolate you, and in effect to minimize the advantages you had over him.

"Since you consider yourself higher than Watson, you saw his refusals as a challenge, an opportunity to finally dispose of this pathetic man you spent your university years trying to blot out. But your fantasy was not fulfilled with just his compliance. You had to be in  _complete_  control, and  _that's_  how he played you. He knew that the longer he held out, the more you'd risk, the farther you'd go to get what you want, and that eventually you would trip. And you have. You've tripped, and you've tripped right into my arena. Now your game is finished."

Wilhem was listening closely, and started to clap. "Bravo, Mr. Holmes. You've done very well. I'm impressed."

You eyed him.

"Except, of course, that I have not tripped. Search all you want to, there are no holes for you to find."

You shrugged, bobbing your head. "Actually, there are two."

"Then, by all means, point them out," Elouise taunted.

You turned to her with a bit of a sigh. "I was going to leave that for you to figure out yourselves, but if you need me to explain, I will. After all, you're almost an exact replica of your father. Between the both of you I can read your entire plan straight from your eyes and your posture, with the final punctuation in the way you dance."

"Oh, you liked my dancing?"

"You loved Anne Carter. She was your personal for years, a confidant, a pretty cat to purr when you were lonely. You were close. You considered her a sister. But she didn't approve of the way you pranced around your father's fortune and obeyed his every word. At the beginning you listened to her, and you saw the danger, but the problem was that you  _liked_  the danger. You enjoyed getting to dance apart from the law. You were charmed by it. So when he told you to do something unthinkably entertaining, you disregarded her warnings, and you disregarded her contempt. That was your first mistake."

"But she's in  _my_  custody now, if you haven't forgotten." Elouise folded her arms. "And if you want to try arresting us, as soon as word reaches our men, she'll be slaughtered on the spot. You don't know where she is, or how to have her released."

You tsked. "That is a problem, isn't it. You two have done a fantastic job of covering up your tracks, you really have. I might be able to pull a gun and wrestle you into court, but even if I could, there wouldn't be much to fight for. There's no paper trail, no electronic trail, nothing except a businessman and his fiercely devoted daughter. But, perhaps, if we had the testimony of a witness, someone given access to every file, every account, every room, every cabinet, every secret the two of you had ever had, we would have a case. We would have our evidence."

"Anne Carter is  _useless_  to you now."

"But it's not about Anne, is it? It's about what laid  _behind_  Anne, the kind of person who would let a woman like that sit in her ranks. It wasn't  _Anne_ , it was your  _love_  for Anne that was your mistake. You wanted her close. You told her everything. You let her permeate your thoughts and your feelings and you let her know you far too well for your own good. You let someone else in, you gave someone else the keys to your kingdom, and  _that_  was the flaw in your fool-proof scheme, the final stab, the one loose strand that brought your entire strategy crumbling down."

You leaned in close to her, your eyes alight.

"Your mistake was not that you had a spy within your ranks, Ms. Elouise. It was that you had  _two_."

The room went dead. All eyes were on you, all minds in swift thought, until slowly, gently, the hand loosened from my arm, and the metallic shaft of the pistol pointed toward me switched its aim. I jumped forward, toward you, and as I turned watched as Argall leveled his weapon to Elouise's forehead.

Her mouth fell open, grasping for words. " _Argall_?"

"Sorry, miss." He snapped off the safety. "Orders are orders."

As Elouise stared in utter shock, Wilhem now knew his position. He turned quickly as if to step toward the door, but you interrupted him with your own Browning between his eyes. "Admit it, Wilhem. You've been tripped."

His face flushed with anger, glancing back at my father, at me, and then at you. "Put your guns down. I'll have men swarming this room if-"

"No, you won't." You inserted, "Because we already do. My brother's got this entire wing closed off. You're surrounded, and there's nothing you can do about it. Get on your knees. You've been beaten."

Relief washed over me. My father slumped into his chair, a smile wider than the horizon splitting his face in half. I glanced over at Elouise, who had now descended into delirious confusion, her eyes wide. Argall kept his attention on her, but watched you out of the corner of his eye. With a snap of your fingers, the doors behind us opened, and I turned to see dozens of black-clad officers snake in, falling into formation with their pistols by their sides. Was it over? Was it  _finally_  over?

Wilhem was seething. He looked between his daughter and you, and my father, and Argall, and me, his eyes blazing like coals. I could see it now - the animal rage, the wrath that had put a quiver in Anne's voice. His head shook, refusing to accept the idea of defeat. His confidence shattered, and as he lost control of his world, he lost control of himself, thrust into chaotic lunacy, fire leaping from his bones.

He stepped away from you. You shouted. He pulled a gun from his suit. My breath caught. You screamed his name.

"You haven't won yet, Holmes."

Point.

Draw.

Trigger.

White flowers burst from the head of my father's chair.

Lecuyér fell. Shoulder. Elouise met her knees, crying out in hysterics, covering her ears, her dress covered in sparkles of pure red wine. It came from everywhere, dripping down my father's hand, hanging limp from his side, pools of red liquid collecting underneath. Hundreds of tiny white daisies sprung from his eyes and his mouth, filling the air with the smell of vanilla and tobacco and gunpowder and blood.

Horrified, you turned away.

Around me were people, endless people, without faces, without names. I was on the floor. I felt far away. I had no idea how much time had passed. There were gunmen, policemen. The whole room reeked of holly. And there you were, beside me, your hands folded together beneath your chin.

"He's dead, isn't he?" I asked, gently.

You looked at me, nodding, slowly. "I'm so sorry."

I closed my eyes. One more moment. One more moment before grief. I could feel it slipping away. In one more moment, my father would be gone. I could see his face so clearly, smell his pipe, hear his voice. Then, in one moment, in one breath, he was gone.

You touched my arm, cradling me tightly against your chest.

It was done.

* * *

_I'm looking for a place to start, but everything feels so different now._   
_Grab a hold of my hand, I will lead you through this wonderland._   
_Water up to my knees, sharks are swimming in the sea._   
_Just follow my yellow light and review all those big warning signs._

Final update Sunday.


	30. Chapter 30

It's Sunday somewhere dammit

Sorry I let this slip a little bit. But it's still here. And I mean it's going to be here for a while anyway it's not like you guys are losing anything.

Read and enjoy. Author's Note in the last chapter.

* * *

"Henry Watson sustained critical injuries. He was dead instantly. Lecuyér was shot in the arm by one of your men before he could take a second shot."

Mycroft shifted in his chair -  _my_  chair, actually - and tapped the handle of his umbrella with a bemused grin on his face. "Argall. He was your secret weapon all along."

You nodded, sitting down. "His connection with Mrs. Watson became evident as Anne expressed her side of the story. Her plan was to kidnap and transport John to Wales, that much was the truth, but the one thing that didn't connect was Argall. Anne couldn't have weighed more than 50 kilos, and although she was athletic, against a 85 kilo military man, she was shot, and she would've known it. She's too intelligent to have jumped into deep water without a back-up plan. After eliminating several other possibilities I determined that had to have been on Anne's side from the beginning."

"Then why would he disrupt their plans and blow her cover?"

"Because he realized that there was a way to not only save John, but to topple Lecuyér's brigade at the same time. He chose to stay with Elouise and to wait for the opprotune moment to reveal himself. He let me move Wilhem into a position of weakness, and then fufilled the deal with Mrs. Watson."

"Mrs. Watson. John's mother."

"Yes. Without her, I'm not sure how this situtation would have played out. She had only a handful of chances to influence her husband's game, but she played her cards well, and she knew when to step back and let Henry and I resume for her. She and Anne had been friends for several years, but she had not known Argall well before the situation occured. Anne had introduced them after he expressed his disloyalty, and the three of them developed their plan."

"That's all good, very good." Mycroft nodded. "But, Sherlock, explain to me the pills. You told me that John had been poisoned by Elouise, but the pills that you've examined have all been perfectly ordinary."

"Oh, yes, that." You sighed. "It took a bit of prodding, but Elouise has already admitted to the burglar."

"Burglar?"

"Favél Augustin. French young man we nabbed the day after New Year's. He was hired by Elouise to replace the medicine from our cabinet with duplicate pills specifically designed for John. The duplicates had the exact same make-up, but had been coated with a benzodiazepine concentrate that caused John to begin overdosing within just a few days."

"This whole thing could've been overwith a lot quicker if you'd just listened to me in the first place." I said from the kitchen. "I knew those pills were bad news."

You discreetly rolled your eyes and continued. "In addition to the pills, there was a nurse in the hospital who was paid off to keep the blood tests coming back clean. The doctor himself had no part of the plan, and we're not pressing charges, but I do suspect that we will not be seeing him in the future."

I hummed my concurrance.

"Wilhem and Elouise Lecuyér are scheduled to be in court by the end of the month, Wilhem on a charge of first-degree murder, Elouise for accessory to murder and assault. Anne Carter and Jack Argall have agreed to testify, and with the evidence they've been able to collect, the jury has had their verdict practically handed to them. John and I have decided that it's not necessary for us to invest ourselves in the case any-more, and he's chosen not to witness for either Elouise or her father. I'm certain that we will not be hearing much of the Lecuyér family for a very long time."

"Good. There are no suspicions of Wilhem being connected to Moriarty?"

"Not any strong ones. Anne had mentioned that Lecuyér was the owner of a drug cartel based in Afghanistan, but his personal files don't lead that direction, and neither Argall nor Anne have focused much on that aspect. If this cartel does or did exist, it might have brushed fingers with Moriarty, but I wouldn't consider it a high priority at this point."

"That's excellent news for us, then."

"It is."

He nodded, his eyes wandering up to me. "And what of the Watson family? There was a funeral?"

"On the fourth." I answered.

"My condolences to you," He said.

"Thank you."

"Was it well attended?"

"It was." You answered. "Friends, family. Plenty of tears and well-wishes. No threats. No suspicious activity." You leaned back. "Anne has elected to stay with Mrs. Watson until her period of grieving has passed, and until we can be confident in her mental and emotional status. I had a word with Patricia's chief-of-staff as well before we left and made sure that he knew to contact us if he were to notice anything worth mentioning."

"Harry's planning on coming back to Cardiff, too, to look after Mum." I added. "But I think she'll be fine."

"Good." Mycroft swung his umbrella. "It seems as if the two of you have already ironed out most of the details, then."

"Most. John's scheduled to meet with a new doctor of Lestrade's recommendation to discuss the medical side of his detox. He's insisted on retaining Ms. Thompson as his therapist, however. I'm holding the duplicate pills for experimental purposes, but John's staying off anxiety medication for the time being. We've installed a new security system around the house, and we're keeping the dog. He might turn out to be useful to us at one point or another."

"Sherlock." I said, flatly.

You turned. "What?"

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, the door to the oven hanging open. I wasn't quite sure whether to laugh or shout at you; I couldn't even believe my eyes at first, but as I pulled the package out from the bed of the oven, I was sure that it was Mycroft's present. It smelled like ash and dirt, but it still had the little golden bow and tag on the top.  _Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson_.

"Let me guess." I frowned. "You deleted  _this_ , too."

You stared at the box. "Was that important?"

"You still haven't opened it?" Mycroft shook his head. "I might've been offended, under different circumstances."

"Sorry. I'll open it now." I scowled at you and set the gift down on the kitchen table. The box was limp with cold but opened easily, revealing a tall bottle of bright champagne that sparkled under the kitchen light. As I pulled it out, the name Lecuyér blinked at me. I studied it for a long moment, then turned it back and held it for you and he to read.

"I bought two bottles from an auction," He defended. "I do suppose it's a bit strange now, considering."

You and I stared at him with blank expressions.

He adjusted himself. "If you're thinking that  _I_  somehow knew about this, you're mistaken. It's just- an odd coincidence."

I looked at the bottle again. "Well, I just hope it makes up for the trouble."

Setting the bottle down, I turned back to my kettle of tea and poured myself another cup. You and your brother fell into silence, but it was a nice kind of silence, silence that had nothing more to worry about rather than a silence that had nothing more to say. The fire crackled in the fireplace, and Mycroft's umbrella began tapping again on the floor.

"The case is over, the problem is solved," He said, slowly, "But one thing still bothers me."

"What is it?"

"The letter from John's father. I understand its nature, but why would Henry Watson choose to write such an offensive page when a less painful topic would've served its purpose just as well. It seems almost contradictory to his character."

"That was something I had noticed, too." You agreed. "His goal for the letter was to keep John distant from himself and his wife, but he chose to do it in a way that would not only distance him but eliminate John'ss confidence in them. I never had the chance to discuss it with Henry, but I would suspect that he had chosen to target our relationship for a reason. It could have been to test John's dedication to me, or to test his motive in pursing a homosexual relationship rather than a heterosexual one. But, regardless of either, it's quite clear that Henry was thinking of John's well-being when he chose his words."

"How so?"

"He wanted John to be strong. That was what he needed John to be. And I believe that that was what he said. 'John, be brave, because something is coming, and you need to be prepared for it.' He shocked him, he woke him up, so that he wouldn't be unprepared for what was ahead of him. I don't know how much Henry knew, or how much he expected. But he wanted John to be ready for whatever waited for him."

* * *

The sun started to set, and the two of you had kept on talking nearly all afternoon. Eventually I gave up listening to you and sat at the window with my paper and cuppa. The snow had been coming down pretty heavy all morning but had now lightened into a soft flutter, the fluffy flakes criss-crossing slowly across the sky. Footsteps had padded down the snow just past our front steps, and plenty of passerbys had gone on without a second thought to the gently-glowing lamp beside the door.

However, one black umbrella faltered beneath the lamp. It stayed there several minutes, twirling in the snow, hovering just below the lamp until I caught sight of it. I rose to get a better look, and caught a quickly glance of a tuft of red hair just below the rubber fringe.

I pulled on my coat from where it hung beside the door, quickly untangling my boots and gloves before wobbling outside. The air had already gotten it's night-time chill, but Anne hadn't paid much mind to it. Her nose and cheeks were already blushed with it. She greeted me with a little smile.

"Back from Cardiff so soon?" I asked, carefully crutching down the stairs.

She nodded. "Patricia gave me permission to go. Harry's with her now."

"How is she?"

"Better. Getting better." She studied the ground, then me. "And you?"

I shrugged, stomping a little to keep blood in my toes. "I'll be alright."

She nodded and watched the snow. I noticed then the discoloration in her eye, still aparent since Elouise, and the bruise along her jaw, but I didn't mention it. Her hair was straight and pulled away from her face; clean, orderly, plain. Her eyes sparkled with the same interest she had that night before, watching the snowflakes off the balcony at Anderson's, but now they seemed so distant. They fell back to mine in a stroke. This time I didn't feel the need to glance away. She was glass, nearly drained of all her color.

"I wanted to talk to you, John." She said.

"About what?"

"The first night we met, at Mycroft's. I wanted to explain something to you."

"Of course. Go ahead."

"I did put a drug into your wine. But it wasn't supposed to do what it did."

I paused. "What does that mean?"

"What I gave you was a starter dose of Elouise's drug. It was supposed to work within three days, to make you prone to anxiety. It wasn't designed to initiate panic attacks. In fact, I was almost afraid I had given you the wrong thing. Nothing was supposed to happen."

I blinked. "What does that mean?"

"The panic attack, or whatever it was. The first one. It was real."

I stared at her, fumbling for words. "Then- all this, with the anxiety and the attacks, it all would've happened regardless of Elouise?"

"Not  _regardless_. Just, for the most part."

I let my face fall, but Anne put her hand on my shoulder and coaxed my eyes back to hers.

"That doesn't mean you won't get better, John. It just means that you should be aware. Nothing starts where we think it starts; there are always secrets, always things we wouldn't never expected, could've never expected. The battle would have come regardless of the circumstances, but that's just how it works sometimes. Y'know?"

I nodded. She let go of me and let me stay quiet for a few minutes, the wind whistling between us.

"I just thought you should know."

A little chirp rang out from her pocket. She dug her hand in and pulled out her phone, frowning at the sceen. I knew that she was leaving. She didn't want to, and I didn't want her to, but somehow I knew our opinions didn't matter much. Her smile was small.

"I have to leave now, John." She said, quietly. "Give my best to Sherlock, alright?"

I tipped my head to her, and she turned, her dark umbrella hiding most of her from sight. She walked slowly, but purposefully, and I could still see in perfect clarity the glassy stare with which she watched the snow. Instantly she was far away. I finally felt that closure that I had been missing, the closure that came as Anne passed out of our lives as silent and small as she came. An odd nostalgia settled on me. She was the past now, pulling away, growing fainter and fainter as the snow separated us, her red hair fading into the shadows of the street.

But at the edge of the block she glanced back, just once, and lifted her hand to wave.

* * *

Night came quickly after that. The sun faded into the distance, and you and I sat down with two glasses of Lecuyér champagne. To my horror, it was actually good.

You stirred up the fireplace, and we lounged in our armchairs, quietly watching the shadows move across the walls. It was nice getting to let our minds rest a little. Your hands fell away from your chin, and your eyes seemed fixed on the little flames, still as the light danced through your curls. We let our walls slowly slip away to the tune of the flames, and as they descended, the easy atmosphere around us fell away as well.

We were recovering, but we were definitely still reeling. It was the first time that we had been alone in the flat, just the two of us, and we had nothing to say. My stomach and head were aching from the detox, and your pride had fallen nearly completely flat since the funeral, which I knew was not good for anybody but which was particularly not good for you. You sipped at your glass with your eyes waxy, focused on anything except for me, and I couldn't help but feel guilty.

"Should we be talking?" I asked, quietly.

You shifted. "Do you want to talk?"

I shrugged. "Maybe it would help. Clear the fog a bit, I mean."

You nodded, swirling your glass in your hand. A few quiet seconds passed, with both of us avoiding each other's eyes, until you cleared your throat. "It's alright if you blame me, John."

"Blame you?"

"For the shot. I should have seen it coming, I should have paid closer attention to Wilhem's position."

"Don't think like that, Sherlock. Of course it wasn't your fault."

"John, I-"

You stopped yourself, setting your glass down on the table beside you. At first I thought you were going to leave, or start crying, or a combination of both. I could see your eyes start to shimmer, but you took a breath and composed yourself, rising from your chair and placing yourself on the floor in front of me.

"I want to apologize," You whispered, "For what I've had to put you through."

"Sherlock, you really don't have to. I don't-"

"No. Let me talk. If not for your benefit, then for mine."

I closed my mouth, biting down on the inside of my cheek. You hesitated, then put your arm beside my leg, gently brushing your fingers against my knee.

"I know now that it was wrong of me to leave you on the rooftop." You began. "I see now that it hurt you in many more ways than I could've imagined, and there is no excuse for me. I understand now how you felt. The thought of losing you puts me on the floor. How you managed to go through such a traumatic experience, and survive, I could have never done. If it were me, I could have never kept on living knowing that I did nothing to help you. That being said, I don't plan on putting myself into that position again."

Your eyes slowly drew to mine. I could hear the intense sincerity in your voice and feel it down my spine like copper. Tears were already starting to swim in my eyes, and I glanced away to hide them, but you moved to sit on the arm of my chair and brush my hair back.

"Can I continue?"

I nodded, wringing my jumper in my hands.

"In a way, your illness is like a danger night." You said. "My brother understood the consequences of danger nights, but misunderstood the importance. He could anticipate them and made sure I was taken care of, yet he never once minded enough to sit with me or care for me himself. But  _you_  did. You stayed with me through all my danger nights, through all my detoxes and relapses and hysterics and fits. You recognized them, you prepared for them, and most of all, you cared enough to see me through until the end. Now it's time for me to return the favour.

"This is your danger night, John. I don't know when it started, and I don't know when it will end. But I promise you that I will be here, waiting with you and caring for you until the daylight comes. I will pour every ounce of my being into getting you through, and I will not give up until you're well again. And I'm not doing it because I have to, or because you need me to. I'll do it because I love you, and I need you and I won't lose you again.

"You don't need to be worried about my well-being, or whether or not I'm happy, or whether or not I care. I won't leave you because I can't leave you, and that's all the reason I need. I'm not going anywhere. So depend on me."

I choked back a laugh, tears flowing freely now. "Mum told you to say that, didn't she?"

You stared at me, but your blinks gave you away. "No?"

I sobbed, grabbing you around the shoulders and pulling you against me. You sank down into me, your hands brushing against my arms, touching my hair. I breathed in, the smell of your shampoo filling my lungs, and breathed out. You didn't need to say anything else. You just needed to be close to me. That was all I needed. You were all I needed.

* * *

I guess what I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that I have plenty to blame you for, but, at the same time, everything to thank you for.

There was no way you could have saved my father. The shot was Wilhem's last desperate kick to the teeth. But it was about more than just the shot, and we both knew it. You should have listened to me. You should have realized what was going on. You should have kept me healthy, and kept me sane. But you didn't, and honestly, you couldn't.

What Anne had said was true, not only about the panic attacks, but also about our whole lives. This battle would have come regardless of anything you or I had done. The challenges we're facing didn't start when I drank that first dose. In reality they had begun months ago, when you chose to come back. Or even before, when you chose to leave. Or before, when you chose to stay. Or before, when you chose me, all those years ago in that lab at St. Bart's.

It would have been easy to blame you, much easier than I'll admit. At any point I could have turned and walked away. But I was entrapped by you. You were the reason I had fallen so far, but you were also the reason I kept on fighting. You were the reason I was always in danger, and always getting hurt, and always being used, but you were the reason I was always satisfied, and always growing stronger, and always being saved. I thought that I was psychotic or just self-destructive, but really, I just loved you. And I still love you. Always, always, always.

I hope that in reading this, by being able to see yourself through my eyes, you'll be able to understand just how much I need you, how much I want you, and how desperately I love you. Both of us will struggle, and there will always be hard times. But you are the hero of my story, and I will always be beside you, standing strong and moving forward even if it's for no other reason than to love you the rest of my days.

All my love to you, Sherlock Holmes.

John


	31. Author's Note

Wow, we actually made it to the end. Can you believe it? I can't.

Thank you all so much for sticking with me through this trainwreck. You guys are amazing. I loved all your input and I really liked getting to hear that you were enjoying reading the fic as much as I was enjoying writing it. I know it wasn't perfect and neither was the update schedule but it was a pleasure and y'know what we made it through and now it's finished. We can both return to realtive normalcy now.

But before that, I would love it if you could take some time to leave me a note. I'd really like to know how you liked Asphyxia as a whole, how it affected you, what you liked and didn't like, and what things I could improve on both in Asphyxia and in my writing overall. Meaningful reviews are worth more than gold to me. My goal in all this is to become a better writer, and I'd love it if you told me how I'm doing. (And, if you want to earn even more brownie points, come chat with me on PM. I'd love to talk to you personally and get your pros-and-cons about the fic.)

Sometime in the future I'll be revisiting Asphyxia to create a third draft, but I have no idea when or how that's going to go down. There are lots of other things to think about before that. But Asphyxia is and has been good practice for me to hone my editing skills (or lack thereof) and I will continue using it as such. So any tips you can give me on improving and critiquing this draft will be very much appreciated.

Okay. So I mentioned my next project at the end of the first draft, but I'm mentioning it again. I will be attempting to write a  **sequel to Asphyxia.**  I've been plotting it for the past few months and (hopefully) you guys will enjoy the new fic as much as you've enjoyed this one. The same mental health issues that APH has dealt with will be prevalent, but the sequel will have an all-new plot and fresh supporting characters. (One of those characters will be Major James Sholto from S3E2, who I've been wanting to play with for a while, muahaha.) I'm thinking about officially beginning it in August, but don't hold me to that. If you're interested in keeping up with the progress, follow me, and keep an eye out for  **Hysteria**.

And that's all I have. Thank you again for all the feedback, guys, you're awesome. Keep reading, keep writing, and keep obsessing over Sherlock. I do enjoy knowing I'm not the only one doing so. Have a great week, and have a great summer.

Shironette


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